i^LiBRARY OF Congress. 






POEMS: 



BY 




COMPLETE. 



Read from the treasured volume 

The poem of thy choice. 
And lend to the rhyme of the poet 

The beauty of thy voice. 

And the night shall be filled with music, 
And the cares that infest the day, 

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, 
And as silently steal away. 

— LONGFKLLOW, 



.^ -') 






MITCHKLL, IOWA. 

THE TEMPERANCE POWER. 

1S95. 



'Hi V 







Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1890, 

BY HOMER P. BRANCH, 

in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



Entered according to act of Congress, in tlie year 1S95, 

BY HOMER P. BRANCH, 

in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



I^DEX 



A Winter Fact. 

Amateur Footsteps. 

Annie Laurie. 

Boatiiifr Song (Spring- Park). 

Choir of the Daybreak. 

Crabapple Blossoms. 

Cowboy Jack's Story. 

Courtship of Vinowaz. 

Chimongha the Banished Sa- 
chem. 

Dream of the Bj'e and Bye. 

Dreamland Kxperience. 

Days of Yore. 

Farmer Jones on Abraham 
Lincoln. 

Fleeting Joys. 

Friendship's Roses. 

Four Charms. 

Frances K. Willard. 

Farmer Jones on Spring Poets. 

Farmer Jones on the Country 
Kditor. 

Gleams of Light. 

Harvest F;xtravaganza. 

Iowa, 

Impromptu at A Picnic. 

Iowa at the World's Fair. 

In the Dream-Drifting Waltz. 

Kind Words. 

Lover's Confession. 

Last of the Sahoahs. 

Lovir's Tribute. 

Love. 



144 


Noble Galilean. 


92 


147 


Ode to Lake Okohoji. 




1.S7 


Ode to Lost Island Lake, 


72 


121 


Only thy Pace. 


81 


9 


Ode to A Covote. 


91 


12 


Ode to the Red Cedar River. 


112 


13 


Prairie F'lower. 


24 


122 


Past and Future. 


47 




Pucka Virata ma's Revenge, 


48 


149 


PhantasniH Inferno. 


69 


116 


Passing Glance. 


71 


139 


Picture From Memory. 


1 10 


1 48 


I'oetry's Thought, 


133 




Romance. 


34 


32 


Song of Ayub Al Ahmed. 


39 


38 


Seraphine Visitors. 


^^^7 


56 


Snowed In. 


104 


103 


Spring Park. 


118 


105 


Seaver's Grove, 


142 


146 


The Fandango 


32 




Troubled Sleep, 


35 


177 


The Nightmare. 


43 


145 


Thine Kyes. 


47 


134 


The Sain'tiy Soul. 


71 


II 


The Beau's Solilorpiv. 


10 


109 


The Bachelor's Delight. 


56 


S2 


The Ladies. 


91 


145 


The Sawkee Princess. 


96 


81 


The Spirit Bride. 


102 


30 


The Motlier's Heart. 


148 


57 


Waltz Song. 


4fi 


89 


Ze3'na. 


90 


lOI 







flOTE. 

This book will be of double value to all who wish 
to keep a personal souvenir of the author, for in 
addition to composing its contents, he set every 
line of the type from which the edition was print- 
ed, and performed the entire letter-press himself, 
printing but two pages at a time, on a 7x11 foot- 
power job press. From its best literary features 
down to its worst typographical errors, the entire 
work, with the exception of the binding, is the 
handiwork of the author. Subsequent editions 
will probably be printed at one of the large book 
printing houses. 



THE CHOIE OF THE DAYBREAK. 

I SAT by the window at daybreak 

As the wildbirds carroled the hour, 
And watched the shades of the night time 

Droop 'neath the morning's power, 
And as the banners of sunrise 

Flung their colors above the trees, 
The burst of light charmed the bird-notes 

Into sweeter melodies. 

The wren, the linnet and robbin, 

The oriole, cat bird and jay, 
And all the choir of the treetops, 

Spiritedly sang and gay, 
And with notes unkiiown to mortals, 

With harmonies as grandly fair 
As the soul's ^m uttered music, 

They piped on the morjiing air. 

The daybreak's freshness and grandeur, 

And the songs of the happy birds. 
Commingled a tender beauty 

That cannot be told in words, 
And a gladness settled o'er me 

That lifted me out of the cares 
That yesterday bore upon me 

In the burden of affairs. 



10 poems: r,v iio.mkk p. pkancii. 

Ami my heart communed with angels 

On the sacred memories massed 
In the stalls of recollection 

Scattered all along the past, 
And the future's brilliant tinger 

In a beckoning gesture shined, 
A strange, glad impulse awaking, 

That cannot be defined. 

O the glory of the morning, 

And the wildbirds' heaveu-made song! 
O the good that is created 

To take the place of wrong! 
But the fondest hours of lifetime, 

And the gladdest moments e'en, 
Do they teach us always, sweetheart, 

The love of- the Great Unseen? 



THE BEAU'S SOLILOQUY. 

Oh, the woodland is balmy and shady 
And awake with the singing of birds, 

As I stroll down the pathway with Sadie, 
And list to her beautiful words. 

We are picking a basket of posies, — 
That is, she is, and I came along; 

But the dowers I seek are the roses 

That bloom on her cheeks; am I wrong? 



IOWA. , 11 

IOWA* 

Iowa, 'tis of thee, 
Fair state of industry, 

Of thee I sing; 
State where the tasseled corn, 
Of wealth and beauty born, 
Glows in the purple morn, 

A field-grown king. 

State where the schoool house thrives, 
Blessing thousands of lives 

Every year, 
I love thy common sense, 
Splendid intelligence. 
Learned magnifficence — 

Hold them most dear. 

My proud, grand Iowa, 
Of thee I love to say: 

"Thou art divine;" 
I love thy prairies green. 
Thy streams and lakes serene. 
Thy woods and hills that lean 

O'er plenty's shrine. 

Let instrument and voice 
Lend utterances choice 



* The above parody on Samuel F. Smith's patriotic hymn, "Amer 
ica," cau be sung to the same air. 



12 poems: r.Y homer r. bKx\.ncii. 

To swell thy fame; 
Let all thy children dear, 
Mothers thac we revere, 
Thy fathers far and near, 

Sing thy loved name. 

From spire and from dome, 

From shop, school house and home 

Swell a glad chime; 
Sing of her constant gain, 
Broad fields of waving grain, 
Her w^ealth of brawn and brain, 

Noble, sublime. 



CKABAPPLE BLOSSOMS, 

The wild crabapy^le blossoms hang 
Like a thousand little fairies 

On the crabtrees' thorny branches, 
And the passing wind it carries 

Sprays of perfume from their faces 
On to every passer-by. 

And the fragrant odors coming 

From the tossing boughs so sweetly 

Charm the soul as well as nostrils 
With a spell that binds completely 

O'er the heart a glow of graces, 

That we'll not break without a sigh. 



COWBOY .tack's STOKY. lo 

COWBOY JACK'S STORY, AS HE TOLD 
IT TO THE SCOUT. 

Had a fight last uight with the Injuns? Well, 

'Twas a rusty night to be out, 
An' the rain w^as as dense as ever fell — 

Say I ain't you a gover'ment scout? 

Thought so! I used to be a scout myself. 

Then got into the ranging way. 
An' have stuck to it ez I make more pelf, 

An' am free to go or to stay. 

Your speakin' o' the rain, the wolves, the fight, 

An' the numerous Sioux about. 
Puts niH in mind o' jest one sich a night 

Some years ago, an' I was out. 

The tliunders roared an' the lightnin' flashed, 

An' the wind bkew a hurricane. 
The elements wrastled an' tore an' clashed 

Ez if the night had gone insane. 

I was ridin' well ai-med along the range, 

Snug-bestrode of a broncho stanch. 
But I felt bewildered an' somew'at strange, 

For I'd lost the trail to the ranch. 

The night it was cold an' dolefully dark; 
The coyotes howled along my trail 



14 poems;' by ii()3ier r. branch. 

Like scores of demons let loose on a lark, 
An' I felt jest a leetl*^ pale. 

To complicate things I hf^ard a warwboop — ' 
A fierce yell that echoed an' broke 

Like the Wild Witch's shriek o' Grizzly Loup, 
An' nigh startled me out o' my "yoke," 

I sat still an' dumb like a chap that's scared 

An' didn't know what to do next. 
An' Spry my broncho, jest stood still an' stared 

Ez if she, too, was perplexed. 

A boom o' guns an' a white man's shout, 

Ez he cheered his pards to fight. 
Aroused me in a jiff to turn about, 

An' we rushed back into the Jiight. 

The yells an' the shootin' kept us in line, 
An' we made for it quick ez we could; 

I pulled m.y revolvers an' ol' carbine, 
They were spunky an' loaded good. 

We landed plunk into a hundred Sioux, 
Bloody de'ils all painted an' stark; 

Spry jumped an' I shot an' we got clean thro' 
Without losin' a bit o' bark. * 

We came to halt in a mover's camp, 
An' was given a hearty cheer; 



COWIJOY .JACK S STORY. 



15 



^^v all j'ined hands an' gave the fiends the cramp, 
tSo they skuddled an' left us clear. 

The night an' the rain went off with the Reds, for 
We had fonght till the mornin' hour; 

AVe was Mighty glad that we'd closed the war, 
An' was feel in' far from sour. 

None of us was hurt, but a dozen Sioux 

■ Had been carried away so lame 
As to show clear 'nough 'at they'd got their dues, 
AYith none but 'emselves to blame. 

We was shal^in' hands like pard and friend, 

When a shriek startled us, so wild 
That every hair was brought on its end — - 

'Twas the shriek of a little child! 

A sneakin' lied had come up on the sly 

An' had captured a little tod, 
An, was ridin' swift toward the northern sky — 

Ge-whiz! how he got o'er the sod I 

The rest of 'em j'ined him, an' otf they went 
A scuddin' toward Old Camp Meade, 

And't seemed 's though the de'il himself liad lent 
'Em especial powers o' speed. 

The mother shrieked that her little Marie 
Would be burned to death at the stake, 



16 poems: by homer p. branch. 

An' the father was ez crazy ez she, 
An' the boys was all in a shake. 

I threw off my coat, jumped into the yolie, 
An' pulled my hatchet from the sack; 

Afore yon could wink I was goin' like smoke, 
Stoutly settled on old Spry's back. 

An' 'fore I knew jest what we was about 

We was. among them pesky Reds, 
An' I jerked the ciiild from the clutch of a lout 

An' broke in a half dozen heads. 

Then Spry sprung about, (oh, she knew the trick! 

She learnt it while herding the cow, 
For she was raised on the range), an' right quick 

We left 'em 'thout even 's much as a bow. 

The fiends turned for us, but Spry was a goer, 

An' we gave 'em a crazy chase. 
Till after a while they gave us the floor. 

For we had the best o' the race, 

I rode into camp like a knight of old, 
AVith Beauty hung faint on my arm. 

An' I felt like a hero, brave an' bold, 
With a heart beatin' strong an' warm. 

The boys pulled me down soon ez I said "whoa!" 
The mother hugged me tight an' kissed 



COWBOY jack's story. 17 

Me jest as my mother did years ago — 
In the years gone back into mist! 

I cried like a child, sir, I know I did, 

When that mother's arm twined my neck — 

It was like a life-line thrown out amid 
The remains o' a moral wreck. 

For I had been tongh in my cowboy life, 

Hadn't always stuck to the right; 
Had mixed up a good deal with frontier strife, 

Which is seldom exactly white. 

An' then when the ol' man came for'ard an' stood 
Pale an' tremblin' an' seemin' faint, 

An' shook my bad hand ez if it was good. 
An' blessed me ez one would a saint — 

Well, I had to surrender right there an' then! 

Said I: "Kind friends, I'm Cowboy Jack; 
Hain't been no account since I can't tell when, 

An' run with a dare-devil pack. 

"I'm known here'bouts ez a mighty tongh case, 
A bad egg when it comes to fight — 

A fellow what's got a party hard face 
When sized up in civilized light, 

"But if God stays by me an' helps in the chore 
I'll swear off an' brace up right; 



18 poems: by homer p. branch. 

I'll kick my bad habits out o' the door, 
An' light 'em with all my might. 

"If the mother here, God bless her good heart! 

She appears like a Christian true, 
Will give me a lift with a prayer for a start 

ril try to be a man, true-blue." 

The mother knelt on the brown prairie grass, 

An' in accents tender an' low. 
Thanked God that the life of her blue-eyed lass 

Had been saved, that the cruel blow 

Had been warded off; then she prayed for Jack, 
Called me brave, big-hearted an' good, 

Ai^ked God in his greatness to lake me back— 
An' she told Him she knew He would— 

Into the great walls o' His wondrous fold. 

Into the arms o' His great love; 
That my name ez a convert be enrolled 

On the big book there above. 

This was all I heard, for objects grew dim, 
An' I seemed to tioat — float — away — 

In a cold, dizzy dream, to the dark brim 
Of a storm-beaten ocean bay — 

To a small cottage on a hillside bare, 
The pictur' o' my boyhood home. 



COWBOY jack's story. 19 

An' I seemed to dwell for a moment there 
•In the warmth o' my mother's room. 

Then I felt no more — I was like one dead — 
But when I 'wakened from the spell 

I found myself in a warm, cozy bed, 
Feelin' weak like, but middlin' well. 

My pard, Big Bill, was settin' by my side, 

Fannin' me with his ol' slouch hat, 
An' when I "came to" I thought he'd a died 

With his laughin', winkiii' an' that. 

"Whist!" said he; "Yo' fainted, ol' boy, yer hurt, 

A gash in the back o' yer head — • 
Wonder it hadn't laid yo' in the dirt 

Instead o' in a snug feather bed. 

"The Kedskins must o' given yo' a slit, 
In yer scrap with 'em down the creek. 

But ez good luck has it yer with us yit, 
An'll be all right in a week." 

Then he went to the door an' called tiie folks, 
An' capered so he'd clear gone daft, 

Told haphazard sev'ral stories an' jokes. 
An' hollered an' bellered an' laughed. 

An' I thought the rest ez crazy ez he, 
When they dashed in, every one, 



20 ' rOEMS: BY nOMER p. BRANCH. 

An' the gal I saved bounced up an' hugged me, 
An' the rest did ez she had done. 

Said Bill: "01' pard, yo' lit in the right nest 

When yo' struck that mover's camp- 
See yer mammy, sister, dad an' the rest, 
Ain't yo' tickled yo' wuthless scamp?" 

'Twas my mother ez sure ez you're alive, 

An' my sweet little sister, too. 
That was born long after I came to strive 

In the land o' the savage Sioux. 

'Twas my dad an' the boys that I helped that night 

In the storm on the open plain, 
An' sister dear that I saved (bless her sight!) 

From the fire-stake's horror and pain. 

They had come out west in search o' good times; 

They was purty hard up back there. 
But they'd been killed ez dead ez ol' Cap Grimes, 

If it hadn't been for me'n' the mare. 

The folks settled down on this very ranch. 

An' here we all live to-day, 
liight on the ol' trail to Fort Commanche, 

Eighty mile from there, so they say. 

We're happy ez cherubs the whole year thi:ough; 
Say! it's gettin' nigh 'bout noon, 



COWBOY JACK'S STORY. 2X 

Better stake your boss down there ia'the slough, 
We'll have diuner dow purty soon. 

To-night we're goin' to have a little dance, 

An' a weddin' if I may say; 
It ain't often you bcouts fall in with a chance 

For fun, so you had better stay. 

It's goin' to be quite a time, yon see, 
For Cap'u Joe Tumms, o' Fort Knapp, 

Is goin' to be j'ined with little Marie — 
They say he's a fine young chap. 

She met him at Denver two year ago. 
An' they've courted some ever since; 

She's the pet o' the ranch, an' — don't ye know? — 
Her goin' sort o' makes me wince. 

She's the sweetest angel under the sky, 

An' if Joe don't use her as such 
He'll be called on to tell the reason why — 

I'm free to predict that much. 

From hearsay he must be about your size, 

An' — what's that? Well! you're Cap'n Tnmms! 

An' here comes Marie on the run. My eyes! 
They're a huggin' like two ol' chums! 



poems: by homer p. branch. 
ODE TO LAKE OKOBOJI. 

Watery gem ! I gaze 

On thy lustre-flecked breast, 
And its pale sheen conveys 

To my soul's gloomy rest 
Vague impressions; the night, 

And the spectre-like calm 
Of the moon's pallid light, 

Like spiritual balm 
Casts a spell o'er thy wave — 
O'er thy legended wave! 

Through the vapors I see 

AVhite flitting forms dancing 
In mystic revelry 

Over thy swells, glancing 
In strange, salient lines 

Between Earth's sombre plain 
And High Heaven's confines 

In lights that swell and wane 
With the gleam of their eyes — 
Changing gleam of their eyes! — 

They're the spirits of those 

Who have sunk 'neath thy waves- 

Those who in death repose 

'Neath thy current which laves 

And caresses their forms — 
Spirits that linger, loath 



ODE TO LAKE OKOBOJI. 23 

To depart, and iu swarms 

Dance anlong on the growth 
Of thy shores near their dead — 
Near the bones of their dead I 

Now in shade, now in light, 

They alternately glide, 
In a crazy, wuld flight, 

And ne'er deign to abide 
For a moment in place:— 

Zephyr-tossed and bestrewn 
They engage in a race 

By the light of the moon, 
And in w^ildered flight vie — 
In phantasmic flight vie I 

They dance along on thy shore. 

Like light sylph-shadows blown; 
And in concert deplore. 

With a resonant moan 
My iDtriision, while I 

Stroll along on thy strand; 
And my steps in reply 

Soft-resonnd from the sand, 
As I moodily dream — 
Lonely, moodily dream ! 



24, poems: by homer p. BRATvCH. 

PKAIRIE FLOWEli, OF THE PONCAS. 

On the prairies of the sunset, 
By the rapid WapsivoluD, 
By the River of Big Fishes, 
Little Sioux, the white men named it, 
Lived Vivee, the Prairie Flower, 
In the lodge of Beak, her father, 
In the old chief Gray Wolf's village, 
Long before the pale face trespassed 
On the virgin western prairies. 

Eyes that twinkled like the starbearas. 
Tresses black. and silken, flowing 
Like the drooping wings of angels, 
Fingers like the touch of morning 
As it lifts the waking eyelids, 
Feet whose tread upon the grasses 
Were as breathings of a spirit, 
Voice as sweet and softly charming 
As the birdnotes of the daybreak. 
Thus was blessed the good Beak's daughter, 
And her features and her figure 
Were so comely that the Poncas 
Named her Vivee, Prairie Flower. 

Loved was she by all the people, 
Warriors brave and prattling children. 
Young and old, both male and female, 
And she loved the world she lived in, 
Loved her kindred and her neighbors. 
Loved the broad and pretty prairies, 



rKATKlE FLOWER OF THE PONCAS. 25 

Loved the wigwams of her village, 
Loved the sky that hung above her, 
Loved the daylight and the darkness, 
And her life was full of sweetness. 

All the wild delights she noted, 
Pets to her all beasts and birds were; 
And the "ha ha" of the river 
As it babbled o'er the ripples, 
And the note of lonely plover, 
Nervous yelping of the gray wolf 
Solitary in the distance, 
And the night-hawk's plaintive whistle, 
Gutteral "slough-pump" of the heron, 
And the trebble of the frog notes, 
And their tenor, bass and alto, 
Coming from the sloughs and river, 
Were to her a pleasant chorus, 
Filling every night with music. 

Let us look now^ for a moment 
At the country Vivee lived in. 
By the charming Wapsivolun, 
Little Sioux, pale faces call it. 
Let us look upon the beauty 
Of the land of Prairie Flower. 

Broad and rolling was the prairie. 
Green it was in happy June time. 
Smiling 'neath the summer sunbeams. 
On the mounds and sloping hillsides, 
On the levels and the ridges, 
Eoamed antelope and wild horses, 



26 poems: by homer p. branch. 

And the bnffalos and roebucks, 
The big deer with spreading antlers, 
Grazing all the joyous summer. 

The coyote mean aud cunning, 
Cowardly yet daring greatly 
When the pangs of hunger drove him 
To attack a stronger wild beast 
Or a lonely human being. 
Could be seen at any hour. 

On the uplands in the morning 
Crowed the strutting prairie rooster, 
"Bourn, boum, boo-o-o!" crowed musically, 
Underneath the bluejoint grasses 
On the mounds by badgers builded. 
While the hens and younger chickens 
Looked with pride upon his glory. 

Boamed the large game o'er the prairies 
Unmolested by the Indians, 
Only when for food they hunted 
For the frigid days of winter, 
As they lived on small game mostly 
In the hot months of the summer, 
When venison and beef would sour 
If at once they were not eaten, 
And the small game, which was plenty, 
Could be. taken just as needed. 

Here and there a slough-pond nestled, 
Where the muskrat, coy and simple. 
Built his house of reeds and rushes, 
Shapen like a hay-cock built it, 



PRAIRIE FLOWER OF THE POXCAS. 27 

With its base dowQ in the water, 
And its rounded top erected 
With a snug nest fixed within it, 
Just a step up from the water. 

Some ponds, larger than the others, 
Had an open space of w^ater 
In the center where the rushes 
Could not grow in the deep water. 
Where the naaliard and the raudhen 
Passed the days in constant swimming, 
Catching frogs, tadpoles and skippers, 
Now and then on sw^eetflag dining; 
And the gentle curlews waded 
In the shallows of these duck ponds 
AVhere the moss and water grasses 
Made the footing soft and springy. 

Through a bottom wide and level 
In a winding course the river 
Laughed and prattled over rapids; 
Here and there in pools it rested, 
Where a quick bend, called a pocket, 
Checked the water's onward progress, 
Or where beavers had cut w^illows 
From the river's willowed margin 
And dammed up the rushing water, 
So their little ones could paddle 
Without danger from the current. 

Mink and otter, cranes and wild geese. 
Game of water, birds of passage, 
Nested there in great profusion, 



28 poems: by homer r. branch. 

80 that feathers, meat ar>cl peltries, 
Of the finer sorts were plenty, 
Making all the Poncas happy. 

On the prairie's round abutment, 
Which walled in the river bottom 
AVith a line abrupt, digtinctive, 
Boldly marking upland edges, 
Groves of poplar and of basswood 
Could be seen occasionally, 
Saved by some good freak of nature 
From the yearly prairie tires. 

Like a harmony of nature 
Was the undulating prairie, 
Beaching off to kiss the mirrage 
Of the glimmering horizon. 
And the simple, rugged Poncas, 
Without luxuries or riches, 
Without statesmanship or logic, 
Lived in tribal peace and plenty. 
Thankful to the Ghost of Heaven. 

All were happy but Big Antlers, 
Gray Wolf's son, pride of the Poncas. 
Antlers loved the Prairie Flower, 
But he awkward was before her, 
Awkward was before all women. 
And he moaned about his passion, 
Had the will but not the courage 
To propose to Prairie Flower, 
Brooding o'er his lov^ in silence. 

Could a woman with such graces 



PRAIRIE FLOWER OF THE ^O^X'AS. 29 

That the chiefs of other nations 
Came to look upon her beauty 
Love an awkward man like Antlers? 

Couhl a girl like Prairie Flower, 
AVith a voice like unto angels, 
And a tender ear for music, 
And a heart that made a playmate 
OF every helpless little creature, 
Love a rough man like Big Antlers? 

Ah, but no one knows a w^oman, 
With herself she's not acquainted; 
Jjong the dainty Prairie Flower 
Had admired awkward Antlers, 
But she neither spoke nor looked it, 
And he daily went despairing. 
Until the Omahas one day 
Appeared near unto the village 
AVith a war whoop and a challenge 
That sent the old war blood to coursing- 
Through the veins of every Ponca. 

Bushed the braves unto their weapons, 
Donned their war paint and their feathers, 
And by brave Big Antlers headed 
Were about to meet the foemen. 
When Big Antlers in his war paint 
Felt a soft form clinging to him 
And a sweet-toned voice emploring 
That he rush not into danger — 
'Twas the form of his sw^eet angel, 
'Twas the voice of Prairie Flower, 



30 poems: by homer p. branch. 

Proud and happy was Big Antlers, 
And with words assuring left her 
And led out the Ponca forces; 
With strong heart he charged the foemen 
That had come to cause disturbance 
And bring sorrow to his village. 

Fled the Omahas before him 
He came at them with such ardor, 
And the victory completed, 
Back came Antlers and his brave men; 
All his awkwardness had left him, 
And he made the maiden happy 
And himself made happy also, 
By the lisping Wapsivolun, 
Little vSioux, pale faces call it. 



THE LOVER'S CONFESSION. 

In thy hammock 'neath the shady elms, love, 
I saw thee lying, lulled to still slumber 
By the fondling breeze, thy golden tresses 
Coyly trembling down along thy gently 
Heaving bosom as though they fondly sought 
To nestle near thy warm heart. Thy maiden 
Form in rounded elegance molding its 
Graceful outline up in naive relief 
From wavy streams of luxurious, dreamy 
Laces, and costume of snowy whiteness, 



THE lover's C0N?'ESSI0N. 31 

Glowed pure and beautiful, like the pictured 
Memory of a saint, in the dappled 
Sunbeams that struggled through the leaf-laden 
Shadow-realms of thy sylvan canopy 
To mingle astir amid thy graces. 

Thy white transparent mantle languidly 
Floating like a vail of fairy vapor 
Round the perfect contour of thy sylphlike 
Image would liave caused the proudest spirit 
From the world elysian to vanish 
In a pain of jealousy. Thy dimpled 
Cheeks were radiant with smiles so sweetly 
Kind the}^ seemed to pour a gentle halo 
Round thy head and were thy soul's reflection. 

There by thy side for a moment I stood. 
Awed to enraptured silence, drinking in 
With thirsty eye the draught of loveliness 
Presented, nor dared to more for tender 
Fear that I should break the subtile magic 
Of thy dreams; but, bolder growing, almost 
Without the reckoning, I stooped and stole 
The joy of one fond kiss from thy sweet lips — 
Then stole quickly out into the shadow 
Of the trees and watched thee from their staid 

depths 
And passed the hour in pleasant reverie 
Till thou awoke, then came forthwith to claim 
The promenade thou promised yesterday. 



32 poems: by homer p. BPtANCPI. 

THE FANDANGO. 

There's a time to laugh and a time to weep, 
There's a time to wake and a time to sleep, 

And, aye, a time to dance! 
There's a time to think of solemn things, 
And a time for thought to fly on the wings 

Of Pleasure's gay advance. 

Then, heyoh! let us whirl and glide and swing, 
To the thrill of the harp and the fiddle string. 

Now while we have the chance. 
For to-morrow morn may come with a cloud. 
And Grief's w^aii be borne on the winds aloud. 

Oh, now's the time to dance! 



FARMEK JONES ON ABEAHAM LINCOLN. 

My daughter Lize an' my son Richter 
They gin ter me a birthday pictur'; 
'Twan't of cherubs with wings a flyin,' 
Nur of the summer flowers dyin,' 
Niir lovers in the orchard mopin,' 
Nur Injins through the timber gropin'; 
'Twan't of the sunset soft an' meiler. 
Painted in red an' blue an' yeller; 
'Twan't of hosses, sheep nur cattle, 
'Twan't a shipwreck nur a battle. 



FARMER JONES ON ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 33 

Nur loves, nur doves, nur none such kinkles, 
But 'twas a face all full of wrinkles, 

I've never seen a face so humly, 

Yet it looks sedate an' comely, 

An' it looks manly, somethin' to it ' 

Of good to do an' grit to do it — 

A look of wdiole-souled good behavior, 

A tender look, like to the Savior, 

In the sad lustre aii' the beauty 

Of his eyes, as if a duty 

Toward his feller men had called him 

That nerved his heart an' yet appalled him; 

Looks that at first are full of myst'ry. 

But when we read our nation's hist'ry 

It's nu if to set one's eyes a blinkin' 

To touch the life of old Abe Lincoln 

Born with poverty to tussle, 
From boyhood up he had to rustle 
For his livin' an' his learnin,' 
All the time his big soul yearnin' 
For a life of better uses, 
Where he could lessen the abuses 
Of that dark an' gruesome season 
AVhen the country lost its reason. 

Al'as goin,' never stoppin,' 

He was good at splittin,' choppin,' 

Never loafed a bit in hay time, 



34 poems: by jiomer r. branch. 

Nur in eveniu's nuu daytime; 

Could talk like a scowlin' fury, 

Or a angel, to a jury; 

An' he showed that he wan't lugless 

In them speeches with Steve Douglas, 

When fur president elected 
He acted jest as I expected, 
An' amidst the big war's rigors 
Wrote the piece that freed the niggers, 
For which he lost the biggest life, sir, 
That ever weathered any strife, sir. 

Glad the child r'n thought to give it — 
Yes, sir, you have struck the rivet; 
'Twas the pictur' of Abe Lincoln, 
An' sir, I am jest a thinkin' 
That no man in this hull nation, 
No, sir, nur in all creation, 
Come before nur comin' arter, 
Is half as high as Abe the Martyr 
In the gen'rai estimation. 



EOMANCE. 

Float, float, with two in the boat, 
Down the summer stream, 

Listen to the songbird's note, 
Talk, and read, and dream. 



TROUBLED SLEEP. 35 

TKOUBLED SLEEP. 

The Fates weep 
As they keep 
Vigils o'er oar troubled sleep; 
Yes, they weep, 
And they creep 
Softly round us while we sleep; 
Moving slightly, * 
Treading lightly. 
While insanely we dream 

In the phantom-palled night — 
Wildly, restlessly dream 

In the fiend-haunted night! — 
And their whispers, 
Soft as vespers 
That tremble on the air 
Of eve with sweet declare, 
Are oft broken — 
Aye, are broken! — 
By the wild moans 

Of the sleeping. 
And by the groans 
And the weeping 
Caused by troubles sweeping 
Without number 

Through the brain. 
While in slumber 
We complain 
In agonized despair! 



36 poems: by homer p. branch. 

Dark spirits gloat 
(As they float 
Before the visions of the mind) 
On our 
Trembling fear; 
And they rear 
To the imagination's blind 
Devoir 
With fierce menaces that appall! 
Oh, how we shudder in their thrall 
As grim Nightmare hovers thus 

Over us! How we cry 
At the dread that covers us — 

How we in anguish try 
To throw off the horror — the cliill — 
The excessive fright — the wild thrill- 
The mutations of fear and hate 
That render the soul desperate! 

Demons laugh 
As they quaff 
Evil from our troubled sleep; 
Aye, they laugh, 
And they chaff 
At our frenzy while we sleep; 
Fiercely glancing, 
Madly dancing, 
While crazily dream 

In the darkness and gloom — 
In wildered orgasm dream 



TROUBLED SLEEP. 37 

Tbrongh night-time's dreary gloom! — 
And their gestures, 
Wild as vestures 
Of darkened storm-clouds torn 
In ragged parts forlorn 
By the raging, 
Un assuaging 
Anger of the 

Furious wind — 
Hurling of the 

Violent wind! — 
Appall us till resigned 
In quasi-death 

We recline 
Without a breath 
Of design 
Until roused by the morn. 

But angels sing 
As they wing 
On hallowed flight through silent night 
And gloom; 
Yes, they sing, 
And they bring 
Kepose and quiet and delight, 
Perfume 
Of dowers and sweet balm of rest 
To soothe the agitated breast — 
And they move to and fro 
In the zephyrs oyerhead, 



38 poems: by homer p. branch. 

And they breathe soft and low 
All around our pillowed bed, 
Till by submission to their will 
Our throbbing hearts grow calm and still 
And we are lulled to peaceful sleep — 
To blissful slumber long and deep! 



FLEETING JOYS. 

She flitted past! Her golden hair 
Floated above a face as fair 

As e'er was looked upon— ^ 
I never thought sun could arise 
On such sweet lips and such blue eyes, 

But hold! for she is gone! 

Thus come our joys, as fleet they go, 
Again we're face to face with woe, 

But cheer thy heart, old boy ! 
There's always beauty flitting by. 
With pretty lips and laughing eye, 

A world of love and joy. 

Enjoy the beauty that goes past. 
Don't look for happy scenes to last, 

They'd spoil us bye and bye; 
If all the world were bright and gay, 
Aud if we always had our way, 

We'd sigh for tragedy. 



THE SONG OF AYUB AL AHMED. 39 

THE SONG OF AYUB AL AHMED. 

What is it that waketh my soul as from 
A calm sleep, to tremble in ecstasy, 
To dance in rapture, to sing with gladness? 
It is Zaada, my love! Mine eyes melt 
In tenderness as they dwell upon thj^ 
Fascinating comeliness. Flowers grow 
Spontaneous where'er thy footfalls touch. 
My rapt heart drowns in the smothering warmth 
Of passion when I press thee to ray heart, 
O dream of glorious beauty! Allah 
Drench the grasses with perfumery where 
Thou must walkj my Love! and carpet the dull 
Earth with dust of gold and sparkling jewels. 



I am riding alone in the desert; — 
the parching thirst, the hot-driving winds, 
The scorched sands, the desolation! A vast 
Streteh of sterile plain! How many hath here 
Died of the misery of famine! Oh, 
Allah, though hast made the children of men 
Strong, and given unto them good camels, 
Designed to endure thirst, else the desert 
Would be the grave of thousands! God is great! 
This loneliness is sore to the heart, yet 
Hath a grandeur that leaveth its mark on 
The soul, for in the absence of His great 
Blessings our thoughts dwell with the Almighty, 



40 poems: by homer p. branch. 

I come to a fountain shaded with palms 
In the midst of the desert. Here thousands 
Thank Allah for the cool water, grateful 
Shade, blissful rest from the blistering sands. 

As a fountain in the dreary desert 
Is my Love among the maids of Islam. 
O the air breathes blandly sweet, like nectar 
Of enchanted herbs, as my eyes dwell on 
My Love! The surpassing fair proportions 
Of her angelic form delight my soul 
And make me to revel ever in dreams 
Of beauty, heedful of naught but my Love, 
Her fingers are of the pure white described 
In the glassy ices of the froz'n North, 
But their touch is as pleasant as the breath 
Of summer winds. Her feet, devoid of shoe 
Or sandal, placed within a dainty wreath 
Of roses white, would be in contrast just 
As fair as lilies of the flowing Nile 
Worn on a Persian maiden's swarthy brow. 

My journey 'cross the sunburned sands is short, 
For my thoughts dwell on my Love. O she is 
The jewel of Araby ! Her eyes are 
Like the stars that light the night from 
Out the firmament. Among the fairest 
She is the pearl. Her voice is like the low 
Sweet chime of bells that comes from far away 
On the dewy airs of the early morn. 



' THE SONG OF AYUB AL AHMED. 41 

I went up into the mountains to guard 
The caravans. We met the Bedouins 
And they fought us to despoil us of our 
Riches. We beat them off, but in my side 
A robbers's spear most savagely was thrust. 
The blood gushed forth, and my life, like a lamp 
Faint from lack of oil, went nearly out, yea, 
I was upon the edge of life with small 
Support, but with her wicthiag grace my Love 
Warmed me back to life with her warmth, nursed 

me 
With soothing medicines, comforting balm, 
And angel care. My wound she washed with oils. 
And with dove's flesh nourished me, My fevered 
Lips she cooled with tonic-draughts of nectar. 
O my love! thy bewitching touch thrilled me. 
Thy warm breath filhxl me with new life. Heaven 
Bestow its riches on thy soul! Thy brow 
Shineth like the maiden moon, and thy neck 
Is like a skilled carving in animate 
Ivory. Join me, O my Love, Zaada! 
And we will ever dwell together in 
An atmosphere of rainbows and perfume. 

Like a sunbeam dancing on the sparkling 
Dew of early morning is my Love, bright 
To behold, and fresh in beauty. Thou art 
A dream of joy, Zaada, floating e'er 
Through clouds of balm that envelop me with 
Dreamy passions of love when thou art nigh. 



42 roEMs: by homer p, branch. 

I walk by the quiet sea in the hush 
Of the morning, I look upon the blue 
Waters, the white foam, the shifting fog. 
I see the deep gold of the rising sun 
Creeping out of the east. How beautiful 
Is the rising sun! Its glorious light 
Spreads out over the bosom of the sea 
In a dream of dainty colors. I dream 
Of my Love as I stroll along the sands. 
My love is rich with beauteous blessings; 
The red rose blooms within her lips, so rare 
And delicate yet so distinct a hue 
As to outrival the sweetest flower 
Of the morning. O my Love stands within 
The door of her silken tent I A supple 
Form she hath, perfect in every part, 
Fascinating to look upon, O yea, 
I look, and my heart swoons with utter love! 
Her breast heaves like the swelling of gentle 
Waters, like the movement of a quiet 
Pool at midnight when Fairies dance upon't. 

Bright Houris moulded her form in the womb, 
Allah beamed a gracious smile from out His 
Golden throne upon her birth and blessed her, 
And the influences of heaven lent 
Her special grace thro' childhood. These happy 
Chances left their reflex in her perfect 
Individuality. She holdeth 
Me in a trance of joy. I greet my Love! 



THE SONG OF AYUB AL AHMED. 43 

Embrace me now, Zaada! Thine arms possess 
Supernal grace, thy breast a witching charm. 
I press thee now to my heart. Oh, who hath 
Ever described the intense joy of love? 
Mine eyes rest on thy hand. Such fingers could 
Command the homage of the universe. 
Thy teeth are of the undiscovered pearls 
Of ocean, richer white, and purer gems 
Than the transparent ivory that girts 
The comely ankle of the Peri queen. 

O thy voice beguileth me to wander 
Through the verdant valleys, to look upon 
The lilies, to listen to the tuneful 
Harps of the daughters of music, to breathe 
The odors of vineyards, to watch the sun 
Break from the clouds and shine upon the hills! 
My Love, thou art the essence of my soul. 



THE NIGHTMAEE. 

I LAY me down to morbid sleep, 
While the spirits of the night, 
Our upon their sombre flight. 
Their silent, gloomy watches keep. 

I pass into a murky mist, 
And without desire to resist 
Float on through dismal routs, 
Now bringing fears and doubts. 



44 poems: by homer p. branch. 

I am afflicted with a freezing dread, 

And heaviness seems resting o'er my head. 

A stifling universal cyclone dings 
Abroad a craze, of ugly, unlike things, 

Down a steep hill I am impelled, 
And from destruction am witheld 
By the same power whose sullen force 
Hurries me onward in my course. 

The ground which I traverse is split 

AVith yawning gulfs, and as I flit 

And leap and dodge along, I see 

Wild eyes peer upward furtively, 

Wishfully and fiercely from these dark holes, 

Which seem to be a hell of wretched souls. 

Mighty clouds and a roaring sound 
Sweep by upon the dull profound. 

I stand upon the heated rim 

Of a lake of lashing fire. 

Where loathsome reptiles, living, swim 

With hideous writhings dire. 

White skeletons are dancing in 
The air and rattling their loose bones 
In fierce, fantastic glee, the din 
Made more horrible by the moans 



TJIE NIGHTMARE. 45 



Of myriads of ghastly shapes 
That rise and fall upon the gale 
Struggling to grasp a monster pale 
Who constantly their clutch escapes 
A.nd seems fore'er to flee 
Toward a fast recedin": sea. 



"o 



The dizzy earth is rent assunder, 
By a blast of deafening thunder, 
And numbed by cold paralysis 
I'm hurled into a dark abyss, 
Where I float, it seems for years, 
In somnolent atmospheres, 

A hideous beast with broad flapping wings. 
And voice that with satanic fury rings, 
Grasps me within its black, repulsive arms, 
xVnd Alls my confused soul with wierd alarms. 

The beast now roars that he doth devour 
All things that come within his power. 
His ugly, mighty jaws expand, 
My face by his foul breath is faiined. 
And sharp as daggers drawn from sheath 
I see his gleaming swordlike teeth. 
Wildly I look abroad 
And gasp a prayer to God. 

A silver light breaks in upon the scene, 

The monster in bewildered rage grows green, 



46 poems: by homer p. branch. 

Now pale, now vanislieth, entire, 
In a flame of consuming fire. 

All terror ceases now, 

I feel upon my brow 

The kiss of a cool breeze; 

1 rnb my eyes, and sneeze, 

And yawn, and stretch, and look around, 

And nothing see here to confound. 

I guess from present looks 

I've been among the spooks 

In the land of Nod, for sure as sight 

'Tis morning; — I've been dreamijig over night. 



WALTZ 80NG. 

TlUP lightly, LiLA, lighlly now, 

See the merry dancers gliding, 
AVhirling, airily as Fairies, 

Sw^eetly to the airs confiding 
All their thoughts in pleasant mazes, 

Thrilled with pleasure, undeciding 
On they go nor dream of sorrow, 

Never brooding o'er, nor chiding, 
Past displeasures — so, dearest, let us 

Waltz now to the music's guiding. 



TIIIXE EYES. — PAST AND FUTURE. 47 

THINE EYES. 

Sweetest reveries and trances 

Through my happy senses roll 
As I dwell within the glances 

Of thine eyes, 
And the light of love advances, 

And shines full upon my soul, 
AVhile a thousand pleasant fancies 
Fall and rise. 

Ah, the golden light embraces, 

With a passionate delight. 
All the scintillating gi-aces 

Of thine eyes, 
And their beauty interlaces 

With strange visions, glad and bright. 
Of seraphim dancing races 
In the skies. 



PAST AND FUTURE, 

How WE cherish the old treasures. 
How we dream of the old pleasures 

Of the golden happy days long gone; 
How we peer into the future — 
The grand mirage of the future! — 

For the treasures and pleasures coming on, 



48 poems: by homer p. branch. 

PUCK-A-WAT'-A-MA^S KEYENGE. 

A PARTY of twenty stalwart Sacs, 

With never a thought of foe's attacks, 

Went hunting and trapping^ within the bounds 

Of their long accustomed hunting grounds, 

In the primal days before the whites 

Usurped the red man's ancestral rights. 

They left their village amid the cheers 

Of gay groops of their warrior peers, 

And happy children that played about 

In many a w^ild, delighted rout; 

Some carried the smile of wife or child 

Away in their hearts, others the mild, 

Coy glance of a maiden's fond dark eyes — « 

And they rowed away 'neath sunny skies. 

On the upper Wapsipinicon 

Their midsummer hunting has begun; 

Far away from noises of the camp, 

Far away from noise of horse's stamp, 

They went to the dark and solemn wood 

Where game was less wary, hunting good, 

Beside the river where they could use 

Their handy and strong dug-out canoes. 

The plump brown bear was a splendid prize 
For the hunting Sacs' bold enterprise; 
The stately elk and the browsing moose, 
The stalking crane and the fat wild goose, 
Were easy prey to the marksman true 



puck-a-wat'-a-ma's revenge. 49 

Who was ambitious to dare and do. 
They accumulated day by day 
A toothsome and excellent array 
Of venison, bear meat, and all the game 
Known by its deliciousness to fame. 
In the open day they hung their meat 
To dry in the summer sun's fierce heat, 
Until with hampers aud sacks all full 
They began their way down stream to pull, 
Merry at heart, toward home with vim, 
Passing the long days wnth chant and hymn. 
At night they camped on the grassy bank 
'Neath the waving basswoods green and dank, 
And dried in the early morn the damp 
Of dew from their clothing in their camp 
Sy cheerful fires, and with pleasure looked 
On their ample breakfast as it cooked. 

Thus three days passed on their homeward ride, 
And they camped upon the riverside 
On the evening of the third day 
Under a bluff that was just half way 
From their erstwhile campground up the stream, 
And they raised their lodge's green crossbeam 
Just as the darkness began to creep 
Up the rugged bluffside tall and steep. 
They raised the lodge, for the weather's face 
Wore a scowling, angry, dark grimace; 
Great, billow\y clouds, in wierd unrest. 
Chased across the sky in crazed behest, 



50 poems: BY HOMER p. BRANCH. 

And lightnings scattered their zigzag light 
In wicked glee up and down the night; 
The earth beneath seemed to sob and moan, 
AVith once in a while a louder groan, 
And birds and animals seemed to feel 
A general dread upon them steal. 

The gray wolf snappingly made reply 
To the prowling panther's savage cry; 
Mournfully whistled the whip-poor-will, 
The screech-owl's note arose wild and shrill, 
The night wind sighed with reluctant ease 
Through the dark boughs of the forest trees. 
While e'er and anon with sullen zest 
Deep thunders muttered far down the west. 

Soon ill frenzy a tornado broke 

Like a bolt of madness from nature's yoke; 

The wrestling elements roared and clashed, 

The thunders bellowed, the lightnings flashed, 

And the angry winds with clammor tore 

The lodge to shreds, and, exultant, bore 

Away the treasured provisions gained. 

All the camp's effects, and then complained 

In loud-howling fury down the vale. 

Gradually dying in a wail; 

And then a smothering calm came down — 

Like a sluggish, dreamless sleep came down ! 

And the frightened braves, dispoiled of strength, 

Prone on the ground cast themselves at length. 



puck-a-wat'-a-ma's revenge. 51 

To sleep away their terror and grief, 
For wildmen's troubles are mostly brief. 

It was the last sleep for all but one, 

For from the rise till the set of sun 

The hoarse warcry of the fierce Pawnees 

Would echo among the bluffs and trees; 

For a party of this warlike tribe 

Had sworn the proud 8acs' blood to embibe, 

And, skulking in ambush close at hand, 

Like hungry wolves watched the little band, 

Till at a command, low-spoken, brief. 

From Scowling Bear, their ferocious chief, 

Each Pawnee moved forward with steps as light 

x\s the falling dew of the pulseless night. 

Slowly, stealthily, as creeps the snake. 

With scarse a weed moving in his wake, 

Crept each wild warrior up the glen. 

Each of the Pawnees' two hundred men; 

And as the stupor of restful sleep 

Held the doomed Sacs within its keep, 

A war whoop around about them broke 

That the very echoes of hell awoke 

With dread of its demoniac sound. 

And even shuddered the pulseless ground. 

In all the disorder of surprise 

The terrified Sacs awoke with cries 

Of inexpressable dread and rage, 

And grasped their weapons and began to wage 



52 poems: by homer r. branch. 

War to the death with the Burging foes 
That like billows of fiends fell and rose 
Bearing them down with the giant weight 
Of superior numbers to their fate, 
Like cats with mice, in this cruel raid, 
With their dazed victims the Pawnees played, 
Permitting them to almost escape, 
Then flaying them until they would gape 
With anguish, and in the wretched throes 
Of madness would hurl upon their foes, 
In the fury of despair, the stones 
From the rough river side, and with groans, 
Shriel^and mutterings. would try to rush 
Through the jeering Pawnees to the brush, 
And in their bewildered, frenzied might. 
Felled many a Pawnee in the fight< 
Until in rage the Pawnee chief 
Ordered the Sacs shot, with the belief 
That in the excitement of tlie fray 
The beleaguered Sacs would get away. 
Then fell the sharp arrows Jike the rain 
Upon unprotected heart aud brain. 
And the strong Sac hunters, one by one, 
Fell ere the setting of the sun. 
Fiercely they had struggled all the day 
Through the cruel torment of the fray. 

Did any escape? Was there not one? 
Ah, yes! In the Wapsipinicon, 
Good stream, a warrior fell, 



tuck-a-wat'-a-ma's uen'enge. 53 

tTust as the Pawnees' clainmorous yell 

Sang out the death of the hLmtin£>' band 

On the Wapsi's rough and bloody strand. 

He swam to safety amid the rank, 

Tall rushes of the opposite bank, 

And sank to rest on the yielding mire, 

Nursing the while a warrior's ire. 

There he stayed until the shades of night 

Lent tht'ir still gloom to his homeward flight; 

Down the shoM^ he crept with bated breath. 

While the gaunt wolves on the scene of death 

(Snarled among the stark dead and tore 

With hungry fangs at the flesh and gore. 

At length by the lapping waterside 

He saw where a small canoe was tied. 

A quick thought leaped to his throbbing brain — 

In this canoe ere the night should wane 

He could with extra exerted force 

Be far away on his homeward course. 

And as he unloosed and stepped into 

The light-tipping, basketlike canoe, 

He heard the warsongs of the Pawnees, 

Camped up the river among the trees. 

Heard! Ah, with venomed hatred heard! 

His soul was sick and his eyes were blurred 

From scenes of massacre and of blood 

On the bank of good old Wapsi's flood. 

He made reply with the fierce warwhoop 

Of the outraged Sacs, and with a swoop 

Of his tomahawk above his head, 



54 poems: by homer p. branch. 

Vowed by the ghosts of the mangled dead 
Strewn through his ancestral woods, that he 
And his family and tribe should be 
Eevenged for the life blood wantonly spilled 
By the war-fiends — for the brave men killed. 

The ripples danced in the pale moonlight 
On the storied river, and the night, 
Calm and restful as a summer's dream, 
Slumbered upon the whispering strfeam. 
Kapidly coursed the canoe along 
As he plied the paddle fast and strong. 
The twinkling eyes of the firmament 
Their countless glittering glances lent 
To cheer the brave hunter on his way 
To the camp of Puckawatama. 

Puckawatama, the warchief grave. 

Was stalwart, hardy, determined, brave, 

A warrior of experience. 

Versed in all the arts of quick defence. 

And in the strategies of attack — 

AVoe to the foeman who crossed his track! 

He heard the messenger's story through; 

His brow grew dark, and his tribesmen knew 

That a dreadful vengeance he would shed 

On every Pawnee's craven head; 

The medicine man forthwith he called, 

And gave the command to glean and scald 

A large supply of the strong smartweed, 



rUCK-A-AVAT'-A-MA\S REVENGE. 55 

And bade his warriors prepare v.dth speed 
To givp their enemies rightful scath 
Mid the glories of the fierce warpath. 

Five hundred warriors, tried and true, 
To the warcall of theiv leader flew; 
Armed with tomahawk, warclub and spear, 
They boldly plunged in the woodland drear, 
And 'neath the forest's sheltering arch, 
Though the days were hot, made a forced march, 
And reached the camp of the dark Pawnees 
On the sceond day, as the cool breeze 
Of the evening began to rise 

O'er the Wapsi's virgin paradise. 

« 

Quietly creeping around the camp 

On the level greensward soft and damp. 

The Sacs closed in on their enemies, 

Pounced into their midst with angry cries. 

And soon writhing, struggling on the ground, 

Had every wretched Pawnee bound, 

By command of Puckawatama; 

Now would he in sullen vengeance slay 

The brutes that had killed his brave young men? 

No! such slaughter was beyond his ken! 

He could spare their live^and better sate 

His utter vengeance and tribal hate. 

The medicine man his smartweed drug 
Had brought along in an earthen jug, 



56 poems: by homer r. ukanch. 

And this was sprayed in the Pawnees' eyes, 

Causing them exquisite agonies; 

When maddened with pain they were set free 

To crazedly roam in their misery. 

The Sacs to their towns returned again, 

As many as came, five hundred men. 



FRIENDSHIP'S ROSES. 

Dear garlands of strange flowers 
That we pluck in blissful hours 

Are friendship's roses rare; 
Chaplets of all pleasing hues, 

Rich blossoms bright and fair, 
Moistened with the honeyed dews 

Of everlasting joy! 
Bouquets, are they, in beauty dight. 
Blooming ever through day and night, 
Bringing to us pure delight. 
Dispelling all alloy! 



THE BACHELOR'S DELIGHT. 

Of'all the boons that Providence e'er deigned to 

bless 
Us with, none, to the stricken bachelor, seems 
So great as a coy maiden's sweetly spoken "yes" — 
It fills his erst blank soul with glorious dreams. 



THK LAST OF THE SA-HO-AIIS. 57 

THE LA8T OF THE 8A.-H0'-AHS. 

Gloom rested o'er tlie once bright hunting 
grounds 
Of the Sahoah nation. A blighting air 
Had killed all germs of life and naught prevailed. 
The tribes of the northern woods were speechless, 
Their land the abode of desolation. 

The trees in the deep and lonely forest 
Swayed fitfully, bnt noiselessly and solemn. 
No note of bird or cry of animal 
Broke the stillness throughout the livelong day, 
And all was hushed in the sublimity 
Of a silence that seemed perpetual. 

The proud and stately Sahoah warrior 
Followed no more the trail of enemy. 
Nor hunted game, for all had passed away, 
Stricken down in the midst of seeming health 
And plenty by a pestilence of death 
That came and made no sign nor gave a pain, 
But laid its chill hand upon its victim 
And the form fell blighted and prone, and moved 
No more. Unburied lay the bleaching bones 
Of honored sires and youthful braves. Mothers 
Of heroic warriors lay as did 
The common beasts, their skeletons exposed 
To the winter's snowless blast. The resting 
Places of e'en the fairest maidens 



58 poems: by homer p. branch. 

Of the tribe were destitute of climbing 
Vines and honored totems. The very earth 
Seemed stricken of the plague, and to be dead 
With all that erst, in any way, was life. 

Winter sank into the void of seasons 
Past, and his icy manacles gave way 
To the warm influence of Spring, but Death 
Still reigned, like a spectre weird, o'er the mute 
And pulseless universe, blighting all things. 

Thus Springtime passed without a sound to roll 
Its echo out upon the dull stillness. 
But when Summer's warm rain and sunshine came 
They seemed to charm the deathly plague away 
And to spirit in the wonted noises 
Of the woods, coax back the singing birds. 
Fill the groves and caverns with beasts and game 
And start the stagnant waters into bright 
And prre streams. A beauty, such as ne'er 
Before had dwelt in the verdant compass 
Of a wilderness, glowed from the combined 
Scenery of woods and streams, hills and vales. 
Verdure sprouted forth luxuriantly; 
Flowers of the loveliest hues, fragrant 
With the most pleasant odors, decked the Earth 
As if it were a gentle bride upon 
The wedding morn; and Nature smiled, although 
No human eye had penetrated there 
Since the pestilence had cast its shadow 



THE LAST OF THE SA-IIO'-AIIS. 59 

O'er the land. The bloomin£:>- growth, the witching 
Loveliness, the charming <>randeur, were all 
The primetive, unseen, unknown delights 
Of a new and undiscovered country. 

But one sunuy day and Indian maiden, 
Beautiful of face and figure, but sad 
Of look as if a sorrow deep had preyed 
Long upon the energy of her soul — ■ 
And tender, too, she was in years — wandered 
Down a pleasant valley, chanting a prayer 
To the Great Spirit, the Blessed Giver, 
To visit her with human company — 
People with a new tribe the deserted 
Land in which she was the sole survivor. 

Yo-ha'-ta, meaning Little Princess, was 
This maiden's name; the daughter, only child. 
Of the great chief of the erst proud Sahoahs — 
Za-bo'-ji — now prone with his warriors 
And people in the everlasting sleep. 

The Little Princess had survived the plague 
Through a charm wrought in her infancy 
Upon her destiny by a miohty 
Magician from the Land of Warmer Winds, 
As a mark of friendship toward Zaboji 
Who had lent the south-tribes succor in time 
Of famine. Under this charm her life was 
Preserved frjm death by the Great Spirit 



60 poems: by homer p. branch. 

For one thousand moons, and she was to act 

In many noble ways, do many deeds 

Of kindness, win fame as a great princess, 

And leave a blessed memory among 

The sacred legends of the northern tribes. 

The pain of seeing tribe and kindred die 
By the hundreds, stung by a poison wind, 
And all living creatures pass to silence, 
Herself excepted, was a disaster 
That overwhelmed her childhood days. Although 
In age a child, her grief and loneliness 
Had brought upon her the thought and feeling 
Of maturer years; and her look was that 
Of wisdom mellowed by meditation. 
She had dwelt in a small wigwam among 
The hills, fed by a pair of turtle-doves 
That brought her nuts and fruit from the sunny 
Land of Warmer Winds, aided by Providence 
To be upon the wing unceasingly, 
And to tirelessly fly to and fro 
Upon their errands of love and mercy. 

But when the stupefying plague had ceased, 
And nature sprouted forth again, she passed 
From a long dream of apathy, and longed 
Once more to mingle with the throngs of braves 
And maids, to watch the dance, to hear the songs, 
To listen to the counsel of the wise 
And live among the creatures of her race. 



THE LAST OF THE SA-HO'-AHS. 61 

'Twas night, and Vohata came forth from her 
Small wigwam after many days of prayer 
And fasting, to feel the fresh'ning breezes 
As they stirred the cool air into healthful 
Draughts, which, mild-careering thro' the flowered 
Groves, brought fragrance on their every breath, 
And lent a soft influence as they met 
In gentle dalliance and kissed and sped 
Away. The dew was falling fresh upon 
The grass; the insects of the night gave forth 
Their varied sounds; the wildcat and the wolf, 
Defiant in their cloak of darkness, strolled 
Abroad, and started the shrill echoes with 
Occasional cries; the full moon beamed 
Its neutral smiles o'er all; the stars twinkled 
Dimly through the gathering mists, the owl 
And the whipoorw^ill gave dreary signal 
Of the sleeping hour, but Nature, with these 
Few exceptions, lay in a bland repose. 



Vohata looked abroad; the hour was 
AVildly beautiful. To the forest child 
The calm grandeur of the night is ev'r fraught 
With soothing mildness. Beneath the swaying 
Boughs of the tall oaks Vohata finished 
Her address of fervent supplication 
For companionship. She felt wretchedly 
The mockery of solitary life, 
And left her prayer with heaven. 



62 poems: by homer p. branch. 

Hark! down 
The river comes, in song of harvest jubilee, 
The voices of Ko'-he-no'-nock maidens 
Sounding the praises of the shining sun, 
The dewy moon, the rainy cloud, and all 
That brings abundance to the world 
Of golden corn, wild rice, and roots and herbs. 
The brave and hardy Kohenonocks 
Had always allied with the Sahoah tribe 
In time of battle, and the ties between 
The two were kindly; and when Yohata 
Heard that harvest rapsody waft up from 
The flowing river, in that thrice friendly 
Kohenonock tongue, her heart was glad 
And she straightway ran to the river bank 
And hallooed the peace-cry of her tribe. 
The shout of fifty braves came echoing back, 
And then the harvest rapsody was changed 
To the peace-song of the Kohenonocks, 

The Little Princess stood out in plain view 
Upon the grassy bank and awaited 
The approaching friends. The Kohenonocks, 
Frona time out ot memory, had worshipped 
The Harvest Spirit, and in the seasons 
Of especial plenty, made excursions 
In joyous parties through their hunting grounds 
In honor of her liberality. 
Praising her meantime in extravagant 
Feast, voluptuous dance and ecstatic song. 



THE LA.sT OF THE SA-HO'-AHS. 63 

Yohata knew the custom, aud rejoiced 
To see the ^iad flotilla waft to shore. 

Twelve long canoes came dipping to the east 
Bank of the beautiful Mississippi, 
And fifty braves assisted fifty maids 
To land, and the young chief, Te-lia-bo'-nah, 
Straight as the tall poplar, lithe as the ash. 
Strong as the sturdy oak, stepped from the throng 
And thus addressed Yohata: 

'"Are the ears 
Of Tehabonah open to the sound 
Of a spirit's voice? Do his eyes discern 
A shadov/ from the happy hunting grounds, 
Or does he see a maiden of the lost 
People of the Pine Woods, and did he he ir 
The faithful peace-cry of Zaboji's tribe? 

Yohata then rehearsed her history 
In the modest but pretty dialect 
Of the woodland Indians, and at times 
Her sentences glowed with eloquence as 
She recounted the ancestral glories 
Of her tribe, now faded into legend. 
She spoke with native fondness of the bright 
Region of the erst Sahoah hunting grounds, 
Dwelt on its w^onderful facilities 
For game, its lavish growth of roots and herbs 
For food and medicine, its fertile soil 



64 poems: by homer p. branch. 

That broi^^'bt forth golden maize abundantly, 
Its sparkling waters and sheltering woods — 
All these would be invaded by hostile 
Hordes, if left unoccupied to waste. 

Her pretty face and fervent words impressed 
The young chief deeply, and thus he answered: 
"Vohata of the woodland hath spoken 
With a silver voice to Tehabonah; 
Her words are like the w^aters of a pure 
Spring, that, murmuring 'neath the summer ferns, 
Fills the listeners ear with charming music 
And lends him a sweet infatuation. 
The chief of the Kohenonocks is glad 
To find, alive, brave Zaboji's daughter. 
The Great Spirit must have spared Vohata 
For a special purpose, as the fierce plague 
Left her as a lone rose in the desert. 
The poison wind of the deathly plague 
Did not reach the Kohenonock nation. 
The prairie land toward the setting sun 
Still feels the footfalls of the mocassin. 
And echoes to the hunter's brave halloo. 
The valleys of the wooded streams abound 
With vdlages replete with warriors; 
The flowers on 4;he sunny hills are not 
More numerous or fair or beautiful 
Than are the Kohenonock girls; in our 
Wigwams the mothers of a mighty tribe 
Preside; and there was Tehebonah nursed, 



THE LAST OF THE SA-IIO'-AIIS. 65 

' Aud there he grew to manhood's years, and there 
In battle with our eneiines he woii 
The title and authority of chief. 
This was but recently, yet he would leave 
His kindred and his laurels, the ranges 
Of his youthful hunting expeditions, 
And the region of his childhood dreams, 
If he could help the Sahoah maid in her 
Distress.'' 

Tehabonah paused. The moonbeams. 
Silvery pale, poured abroad their calm light, 
And glittered on the young chiefs waving crest. 
His look was ki-nd and noble as his gaze 
Bested upon'the heroic daughter 
Of the stricken tribe, and she drew closer 
As she felt his sympathetic powder. 
Round about them circled the faithful braves, 
Each near unto the maiden of his choice. 
Suddenly above them in a white cloud 
The Spirit of the Woods appeared and said: 
"The Great Spirit hath graciously ordained 
That here and now Yohata and the brave 
Young Tehabonah shall be w^ed. These maids 
And youths also shall be joined in wedlock, 
It is His will. Kindly, I now pronounce 
As married each couple of this group. 
Take this good land as thy abiding place; 
Tarry here and cultivate the yellow maize, 
Hunt the warv deer, seek the verdeiit herbs, 



66 poems: by homer p. branch. 

Gather the luscious fruit, trap the miiskrat 

And the miuk and utilize their downy fur; 

Be temperate and frugal in thy lives, 

Slow to quarrel, at all times merciful; 

Let thy ambition be to ever gain 

In knowledge, to better thy condition, 

To found in this vast wilderness a tribe 

That for intelligence will leave its mark 

Upon the land by means of many works. 

Go not across the river to the west; 

A deathly pestilence will reign for years 

Throughout the Kohenonock hunting grounds. 

Hail! Tehabonah, chief of a new tribe, 

From which a thousand tribes shall spring, all 

hail! 
Vohata, thy prayer for companionship 
Hath been paid. For better or worse, adieu!" 

With a departing gesture the spirit 
Dissolved and vanished on the lifting winds, 
And the crowd stood still, dazed vvith wonderment 
And awe, until the voice of the young chief 
Broke the silence: "It but remains to do 
The will of the Great Spirit. My noble 
Braves, ye heard the voice. The Great Chief of 

Chiefs 
By his night messenger hath commanded; 
It is well. Here shall we devote our lives 
To peaceful deeds and industry. Let us 
Now possess the land and build our wigwams 



THE LAST OF THE SA-IIO'-AIIS. 67 

In this wooded vale. Vohata, priocess 

Of the Sahoahs, now chieftess, by command 

Of the Great Spirit, of another tribe, 

A new nation to be nurtured within 

The playgrounds of thy childhood, accept our 

New relation kindly. On thee shall 

Fall the grace to give the new-appointed 

Tribe a name. 

Vohata answered: "The warm 
Air is balmy, the moon is in its full. 
The stars shine kindly, the wildwood odors 
Float on pleasant breezes, the nightbirds call 
To each other in loving cadences; 
An hour ago the daughter of the woods 
Was wretched, in a desert of despair. 
The only human creature in this vast 
Wilderness, and noted not the beauty 
Of the night; but Tehaboj^iah, guided 
By the Great Spirit, and accompanied 
By his braves and maidens, approached our shore; 
Vohata heard their voices and was glad; 
The young chief and his people came to land, 
Then came the Spirit of the Woods and spoke 
Golden words. Tehabouah, it is well! 
Let us name the new tribe Wah'-ka-wam'-ka, 
(Woodland Workers); let us strive to improve 
Our knowledge and our mode of life, subdue 
Our ruder habits, encourage kindness, 
Study to be generous and thoughtful. 
Be a wise example to our people." 



68 poems: by iiomek p. branch. 

Thus, a small and youthful baud, the ancient 
Wahkawamkas began a famous life. 
And grew to be a mighty tribe, as days, 
Moons and seasons changed, and time retreated 
Into the remote shadows of the past. 

This was many years before the paleface 
Landed upon the western continent. 
Myriad tribes follow their origin 
Back to the great Wahkawamka nation. 
There was a time, according to olden 
Legends, when all America was swept 
With the poison breath of a lethal plague. 
When only here and there were left a few, 
As in this case of the ancient Sahoahs 
And their western friends, the Kohenonocks, 
To keep the spark of human life aglow. 
Their works are plenti^l throughout our land. 
And show that the ancient Indians were 
More energetic, wise and ambitious. 
Than their wild, grim, dark-minded descendants. 
The Wahkawamkas worked the mines along 
The great lakes of the north; made utensils 
Useful in peace and war, of metals found; 
Built sacred mounds to perpetuate 
Their memory, that the races coming- 
After might see a lasting evidence 
Of industry, the ablest monument 
Any race, or nation, or man can leave. 



PlIANTASMA INFERNO. 69 

PHANTA8MA INFEENO. 

Down a hot and diuoy valley 

Turbalantly flows a river, 
On whose banks there frantically 

Roaming, wofaliy aquiver, 
Lingers a tumultuous band 
E'er treading up and down the strand — 
A restless, wild-eyed, glaring gang, 

Who shriek in concert evermore 
Accompaniments to the clang 

Of waves that beat against the shore; — ■ 
And pitifully moan and wail 
And tell a crazed and mumbled tale 

Of the pains, the pangs, and the vast 

Torments they endure, while aghast 
They swelter in the scorching gale. 

Phantoms they! the stygian souls 

Of ambitious mortals who died 

The slaves of vanity and pride — • 
Souls more infernal than the ghouls 
That feed with greediness dread 
On the corses of the dead — 
Souls of mortal hypocrites who 
Wh en on earth made much ado 
Of righteousness and virtue, stood 
As perfect models of the good, 
Prayed long and loud in public place 
With upturned eye and beaming face; 



70 poems: by homer p. branch. 

But beneath which, low-seathing, lay 

A life of vice that bursted forth 
In foul aud odious array 
At last and fiercely swept away 

Their every vestiment of worth. 
Their character, by mean deceit, 

Though maudlin, vicious, mean and low, 
Upheld so as to seem replete 

With actions bright with holy glow. 
Came forth at last so that the world 
Could see their vicious lives unfurled 
And shudder as their souls were hurled 
Down at the demon's beastly feet. 

Eemorse eternal is their doom. 
Their dwelling place the morbid gloom 
That spreads its heated vapors o'er 
Dark Hades' everlasting roar. 
They sob and shriek and madly sigh. 
And linger 'neath that canopy, 
The sullen dread-cloud of distress, 
And rave in wild unhappiness; 
They linger there upon the strand 

And watch the stream's hot eddies whirl 

Into many a vortex-curl. 
While their parched mouths and tongues expand. 
And torturously crack and dry 

In burning fever, and their hands 
They wring in frenzy, and they cry. 

And cringe, and fiercely tramp the sands. 



A PASSING GLANCE — THE SAINTLY SOUL. 71 

A PASSING GLANCE, 

You stroll by the lapping river, 
AVitli sweetheart by your side; 
Ah, your heart is all a-quiver, 
For pretty Byrl, 
The laughing girl, 
Has promised to be your bride. 

And she'll keep the promise true; 
Both heart and hand she gave, 
To be kept and loved by you; 
A treasure she 
And you should be 
Her master and her slave. 



THE SAINTLY SOUL. 

A SAINTLY soul is ev'r giving 
Thro' the sunlight and the mist, 

In the Valley of the Living, 
All on which our hearts insist; 

All the joy and happiness, 

All the outlets from distress, . 

All that makes our sorrows less, 
All that heart can wish — the core 
Of her never ending store! 
She is Love, forever more. 



72 poems: by homer p. branch. 

LEGEND OF LOST ISLAND LAKE. 

Wave-dimpled lake! I dream, 

As I gaze on thy blue^ 
Laughing waters — ah, dream ! — 

That I hear the halloo 
Of the wild, painted brave, 

Who once lived on thy shore. 
Echo up from his grave 

To resound evermore 
Through his old hunting ground — 
His revered hunting ground! 

And my thoughts wander back 

Through traditions of old, 
Down the dim, fading track 

Legend, and unrolled 
Are the scrolls of the past 

To the eyes of my dream, 
But my heart stands aghast 

At the red, bloody stream 
That flows down through the years — 
Through those far away years! 

To roam on the prairie 

Was the lot of the race 
That peopled this area. 

And there was ample space 
For all tribes to enjoy 

For Ions: stretches around 



LEGEND OF LOST ISLAND LAKE. 

The wild liuutsman's employ 
On a rich hunting ground, 
But they wrangled and quarreled- 
Fought madly and quarreled! 

Thus 'tis ever with man, 

AVhether civilized or 
Not, he takes if he can, 

In the fortunes of war, 
The estates of his neighbor, 

And he takes greater pride 
In war than in labor; 

Either struts on the side 
Of conquest, or bows down — 
To the victor bows down ! 

But my dream again turns 

Through the silence of time, 
While thy bright bosom spurns. 

With a beauty sublime. 
The caress of the breeze — 

Again turns, and I gaze 
In mild, pleasure-toned ease 

On the scenes of old days; 
Scenes wild and romantic — 
Superbly romantic! 

And a green island floats 

As in days long ago. 
Midst a hundred small boats, 



74 poems: by homer p. branch. 

On thy wave to and fro, 
And the ti-ees nod in beauty 

Over deerskin tepees — 
In tall, stately beauty! — 

In the soft summer breeze, 
On this wizzard island — 
Old, legended island! 

O'er thy bosom this isle 

Floated ever, O lake, 
Like the heart of a smile, 

And the course it would take 
Was the course of the gale, 

As a raft wafts along 
AVhen the wind fills its sail 

With an impetus strong, 
But it ne'er touched thy beach — 
E'er stopped short of thy beacli! 

Charming lake, the tepees 

That I see in my dream 
On the isle 'neath the trees, 

While serene sunbeams stream 
O'er thy light choppy waves, 

Are the tents of the wild 
Pottawatamie braves. 

Who in past years beguiled 
Their days in this region — 
This fair, blooming region ! 



LEGEND OF LOST ISLAND LAKE. 75 

A I] J I see the bright eyes 

Of the laugh iug Winole, 
The delii',ht of her wise, 

Aged father's proud soul, 
As she sits at the door 

Of his painted tepee, 
Singing songs o'er and o'er 

Of her love, a Pawnee 
From the plains farther south — 
The fair land of the south ! 

But a tremulous sound 

Now and then chokes her voice, 
And she glances around — 

Sadly around! Her choice 
Is against the command 

Of the chief of the tribe, 
Who himself seeks her hand 

In marriage, and a bribe 
Has olfered her lover — 
To buy off her lover! 

Would the brave Waugama 

Take the gift of the chief? 
"May I ne'er see the day — 

I would die, mad with grief," 
Is the thought of the maiden; 

Then she carols again 
A song that is laden 

With the joy of the wren, 



76 FOEMS: BY HOMER T. BRANCH. 

And she smiles at her fears — 
Gaily laughs at her fears! 

Now she breathes a low prayer, 

And full on my vision 
A young man appears; — there 

Is manly decision 
And a firm, cogent grace. 

And comely uprightness 
Plainly writ on his face. 

And a steady brightness 
Calmly shines in his eyes — 
Firmly shines in his eyes! 

It is brave Waugama, 

And he comes on his horse 
From his lodge far away, 
" Like a pang of remorse. 
Like a wild rush of air, 

For the cold messaj^e brief 
And the offer unfair 

From his rival, the chief, 
Has filled him with madness— 
With jealousy's madness! 

He is met on the shore 
By the smiling Winole — 

On the lake's sandy shore 
By the bright-eyed Winole!- 

And she lakes him across 



LE(<ENI) OF LOST ISLAND LAKE. 77 

To her home on the isle 
In a boat. Ah, the toss 

Of her head! Ah, the smile 
On her face, as she rows — 
For her brave lover rows! 

Waugama is a man 

Of brave deeds and renown, 
And my eyes do not scan 

In the Indian town 
Even one to excel 

Him in sinew and form; 
But I see a mad hell 

Seathing there that will storm 
Forth upon him in rage — 
Soon in jealousy's rage! 

There has gathered two groups, 

One around the mad chief, 
And the other, with whoops 

Of countenance and brief 
Comments of cheer, around 

Waugama and Winole, 
And the echoes resound 

With the defiant roll 
Of the rattling war-drum — 
The long-buried war-drum! 

Waugama's group is small; 

He commands his brave friends 



78 poems: by homer p. branch. 

To secure tlie canoes — all 
Nimbly rush to the ends 

Of the isle, aud the boats 
Are loosened quickly and 

iShoved out from the floats 
Attached to the island, 

Out, O lake, on thy wave — 

Friendly, life-giving wave! 

When Winole's father old 

Sees his child safe from harm 
In the strong, willing hold 

Of her fond lover's arm. 
He turns toward the chief, 

And in accents of rage 
Cries: "Would you be a thief 

And rob me in my age 
Of my only Winole — 
Of my cherished Winole? 

"Would you rob him who made 

You the chief of this tribe — 
The Pawnee who has staid 

Years by you and your tribe? 
By the slow smoke that curls 

From the graves of my dead— 
By ray boys and my girls 

And my wife lying dead — 
I hurl a curse on you — 
This island and you I" 



LEGEND OF LOST ISLAND LAKE. 79 

But there are other boats 

Drawn up high on the beach 
To dry; the chief's eye gloats 

Upon these; they're in reach! 
He shrieks out a command, 

And by fifty wild men 
They are launched from tlie land, 

On thy waters, and then 
Comes the hard race for life — 
Frantic, wild race for life! 

As I look, in my dream 

I see dark clouds arise 
From the far west's extreme 

To the uppermost skies. 
While the resonant roar 

Of the thunder's deep bass 
Jars the turf on thy shore. 

And fierce lightnings race 
Up and down the dull sky — 
Brightly flash in the sky! 

A monster cloud descends — 

A wild, wailing cyclone — 
As Winole and her friends 

Beach the mainland Alone 

They stand on the prairie ! 

The fair island is gone; 
Not a solitary 

Boat is now seen upon 



80 poems: by homer p. branch. 

Thy great, high-surging waves — 
Splashing, billowy waves! 

Filled with awe is each heart 

In that small, frightened group, 
And the teardrops they start 

And the eyelids they droop, 
As women and braves look 

In vain o'er the expanse 
Of thy waters — ah, look! — 

Do they stand in a trance? 
Is their island home lost — 
Dashed to pieces and lost? 

It is done, and the skies 

Give as kindly a smile 
As e'er raptured the eyes 

On the place where the isle 
Was destroyed by the storm! 

Of their mad enemies 
No trace is left, and warm 

Comes the fondling sonth-breeze 
O'er the green, level plains — 
O'er the vast, grassy plains! 

And the vision it fades, 
As a dream of the night 

Sinks away in the shades 
Of the past, and the bright 

Day spreads out o'er a scene 



LEGEND OF LOST ISLAND LAKE. 81 

That is good, debonair; 
The prairies are still green, 

But a race that is fair, 
Wise and cultured, now lives — 
In this happy land lives! 

The wild grasses that grew 

Like a robe o'er the plains, 
Kissed by sunlight and dew. 

Have given way to grains 
By husbandmen planted. 

And the sailboat now skims 
Over thy enchanted 

Wave, and the steamboat swims 
Where once swam the canoe — 
The wild redman's canoe! 



KIND WOEDS, 

An angel-serenade 

To hearts that are broken 
Is the gentle love-raid 

Of words kindly spoken. 



ONLY THY FACE. 

Yes, Mabel, thoii art beautiful — that is, thy face is, 
But thou art sadly lacking in all other graces. 



82 poems: by homer p. branch. 

THE IOWA BUILDING AT THE WOELD'8 
COLUMBIAN EXPOSITION. 

"Grand old Iowa! Hurrah!" was the word — 

Beautiful Iowa! each heart was stirred! 

There in its comeliness, bright, debonair, 

Amid the gay pomp of the great World's Fair, 

Stood Iowa's home. A passion oi: pride, 

Such as the groom, when he looks on his bride, 

In her dear, lovely sweetness, might feel. 

Filled the depths of our souls, set the seal 

Of our impulsive western enterprise 

On the grand structure that greeted our eyes. 

Substantial and shapely, pleasingly dight 

In a shade of dark grandeur, midst the white, 

Dazzling surroundings, it relieved the scene 

Of a surfeit of bewildering sheen. 

Crystal and bronze, mixed with gold and with gray, 

Flecked here and there with a silvery spray, 

Smiled in the rays of the midsummer sun 

Like eyes of the starlight dancing in fun. 

And the whole looked so perfect, so sedate, 

And so handsome — just like our good State! 

"Old Glory," too, floated proudly at home, 

Over each finial, over each dome; 

From every flagstaff her loved colors flew — 

Three cheers, boys, shout for the red, white and 

,blue! 
Lavish with beauty, yet nothing o'erdone, 
Everything finished that was begun, — 



IOWA AT THE COLUMHIAN EXrOSITION. 83 

Free handed, yet thrifty, that's Iowa's style, 
Her smile is always the heart of a smile, — 
Thus stood our building with welcome to all 
Who upon Iowa happened to call. 

We passed with the throng thro' the open doors — 

The welcome, inviting, wide-open doors! — 

Into the pavilion's respleudaut fold. 

Where scenes fair as the morning, bright as gold, 

Displayed the exquisite wealth of our fields, 

The bounty that Iowa soil ever yields. 

The richness of harvest's prodigal bloom 

Waved and glowed in the voluptuous room; 

Iowa grasses and Iowa grain. 

The fruits of Iowa muscle and brain, 

And her broad, fertile acres, nodded there, 

Bright as when waving in Iowa air. 

Vegitable, grass, fruit and flower seeds, 

Thousands of kinds for the various needs 

Of the rich thousands who skilfully toil 

In happy low^a's generous soil. 

All grown 'neath Iowa's sunshine and shade, 

In artistic splendor were there displayed; 

But richer than all — the room was ablaze 

With Iowa's glory, her ripe golden maize, 

AVoven and shaped in a thousand designs 

Of artistic dreams and beautiful lines^ 

As if gods had played with the leven 

Of paradise and made us a heaven. 

The stones from her quarries, coal from her mines, 



84 poems: by homer p. BPtANCII. 

Her crystals a>id marble, timber and vines, 

Were shone in an amount and variety 

That only stopped short of satiety. 

Her schools, asylums, reformatories, 

Hospitals, charities, all such glories, 

Were represented so fully and well 

That exhibits told more than tongue can tell 

How Iowa teaches her boys and her girls, 

Showering upon them the richest pearls 

Of knowledge; and how she teaches the blind, 

The mute and the deaf; how thorough and kind 

Her care of the imbecile and insane. 

With vigilance never allowed to wane; 

How Iowa people^they're pure as gold, 

God bless them! — ^shelter the infirm and old, 

The orphan babe and the helpless poor. 

And the wronged who fall by the Evil Doer; 

But these facts of Iowa's noble heart 

Were only shown at the Fair in part, 

For the heart's real impulses can't be shown, 

Nor its inmost tenderness e'er be known. 

While the great throng gazed with admiration 

On those arts of Iowa's creation, 

While foreigners and strangers look'd with wonder 

On all the aforesaid, — rumbles of thunder, 

A whistle, a bird note, a joyous cry, 

And then a grand swell of wild minstrelsy, 

AVeird, tender, harsh, sweet, now soft and now loud, 

AVould in ecstatic throbs break ov'r the crowd; 



IOWA AT THE (X)LU3I]5IAN EXPOSITION. 85 

In the moiiiing and in midafternoon, 

From forty-two instruments all atune, 

Twice a day this would happen — this wild, grand 

Outburst of music from our great State Band. 

Ah, our summer house at the great AVorld's Fair, 

Was the joy of every lowan there! 

How at home we felt in every room; 

The role of host we could with ease assume 

When friends from other states came in to see 

Iowa in her proud divinity. 

Her reception rooms on wet, muddy days. 

With welcome cheer were as much ablaze 

As upon the days whose sunniest boon 

AVould have crownied the midweek of balmy June. 

Library, parlors, and spacious hall, 

liain or shine, could be enjoyed by all. 

For key was ne'er turned during week day hours 

In the wide doorways of Iowa's bowers, 

And all within bore a blessed look, 

From the pavilion large to the smallest nook. 

No kegs of beer, no bottles of wine. 

No barrels of rum from the wicked mine 

Of fiends who destroy the image of Him 

Who dwells with archangels and seraphim. 

Were in any of our exhibits seen, 

For our Iowa could not be so mean 

As to advertise a debauching thing 

That through the crazed appetite's hankerin<*- 

Drags men dovvn 'neath the satauic knell 



86 poems: by homer p. BRANCir. 

Of madness and vice to the depths of hell; 

But high on the parlor wall there hung, 

Like a newborn anthem, yet unsung, 

In refined beauty, a banner of gold. 

Upon it a pictured scene from the wold 

Of the rippling lied Cedar's sparkling stream, 

Around which, in letters of golden gleam, 

"Mitchell County W. C. T. U.," 

Smiled upon the many or the few. 

From the Keporters' Boom, (where yarns were told, 

As exaggerated, broad and bold. 

As that "enlarged" ear of Iowa corn*), 

To the wide balconies that faced the morn 

As the rising sun blushed o'er the lake. 

The structure was as good as man could make 

For the purpose it was designed to fill, 

So the Iowa building "filled the bill," 

To use a commercial and well known phrase. 

From the first to the last of World's Fair days. 

But not for her exhibit at the Fair, 
Not for her splendid showing anywhere. 
Not for her pomp and dress w4ien on parade. 
Not for her business nor her social grade, 
Do we love our ^rand, proud Iowa the most. 
But for the dear excellencies engrossed 

* Out of the product of a dozen ears, some wag, who was somewhat 
of a genius, made and placed on exhibition an ear of corn two feet 
long, "as natural as life." No doubt thousands with limited knowl- 
edge of the possibilities of corn growth, looked with admiration upon 
this "sample," without a question as to its genuineness. 



IO\VA AT THE COLUMIUAN EXPOSITION. 87 

Upon our liearts by fellowship with her streanas, 
Her woods and prairies, during childhood dreams 
And plays, and the romps, explorations, strolls, 
That followed the unfolding of our souls 
As youth and maidenhood advanced to greet 
The place in life where "brook and river meet"; 
Engrossed upon our hearts when sweet ronjance 
Held us in many a lovely trance, 
Till fields are flower gardens in our eyes 
When we consult those early memories; 
Engrossed upon our hearts by happy homes 
And staunch, good friends, the clear-writ epitomes 
Of which, with seldom an erasure or a blot, 
Inspire us each to be a patriot. 



8ERAPHINE VISITORS. 

Silently on wings of ether 

In my dreams there come to me 
Visions of unearthly beauty 

That caress me lovingly; 
And they float, these lovely shadows. 

O'er my curtained couch all night, 
Each dispensing sw^eet enchantment, 

Joy benign and calm delight. 

Vestures of transparent whiteness 
Wave about their lustral forms, 

Glist'ning softly in the moonbeams, 
Kissed by airs in tender storms; 



roEMS: BY HOMER r. branch. 

And their silver-gleaming tresses, 
As they move in silent flight, 

Mildly light the darkness round them. 
Lending beauty to the night. 

Ah, they come and lie beside me. 

Hold my head with tender care, 
Soothe my sleep with happy thoughts. 

All night staying fondly there; 
Thus I rest in arms of zephyr, 

Closely pressed in warm embrace — 
Warmly pressed to spectral bosoms 

With their warmth upon my face! 

They're the spirits of the loved ones 

Who have passed to homes divine, 
In the second life's Great Kingdom, 

Within Heaven's borderline; 
But at night in bands all joyous 

Flock they to the mortal one 
Whom of all earth they loved the most, 

Whom of earth now love alone. 

Bright they come on Beulah's odors. 

Floating on the breath of low, 
Sweet music, mild, melodious, 

And their Fairy faces glow — 
Glow with happiest expression! — ■ 

As they hover o'er my bed, 
And their lips in kisses touch me 

As they nestle round my head. 



A LOA ek's tkiijutk. 89 

A LOVEK'8 TKIBUTE. 

Thy flaxen tresses bewitchingly move 
As if stirred by the touch of angels, Love, 

In this winter breeze, 
And the huiL^hiug' glance of thy sweet blue eyes 
Is like a beam from the sunniest skies. 

A beauteous form, such as many deem 
Can only exist in a poet's dream. 

Is thine, and the ease 
And the grace of thy every motion 
Demand and receive a rapt devotion. 

The bracing ozone of the frosty air, 

The softened gleam of the ice's cold glare, 

The stately brown trees, 
The spirited chime of our ringing skates, 
All speak of thee with the praise of the Fates. 

Thy dainty-gloved fingers, now in my hand, 
Thrill me like the touch of a Fairy's wand, — 

O thou art divine! 
A soul as pure as the cherubim speaks 
In the living pink of thy seraph cheeks. 

Thy beauty is painted within my heart, 
A painting superior to art, 

There let it shine! 
Unto me give thy hand, maid of light — 
Give thy heart unto me, lovely wight! 



90 roEMs: by iioimek r. branch. 

Wilt thou be mine, radiant girl? O tell! 
Thus I beseech, exhort and pray — well, well, 

I know thou art mine, 
For the dream of a soul-delighting smile 
Lingers in the rose of thy lips the while. 



TO ZEYNA.* 

Of all the flowers, dear, that grow 

Up from the fertile sod. 
The fragrant white rose is, 1 know, 

Sweet as the smile of God; 
As sweet, Zeyna, thy nature true, 
As sweet as thou, hovv^ fev;! 

Then take this rose and wear it where 
'Twill catch the changing sheen 

That darts along thy raven hair. 
Or glances bright between 

The lashes of thy tender eyes 

And on thy fair cheek lies. 

Wear it, Love, where thy breath, twice sweet, 

Can kiss its fragrant leaves; 
Look on't, then think, my dear, to meet 

Me 'neath the hanging eaves 
Of the old rose-bower to-night, 
Prepared for secret flight. 

* From '"Zeyna E)! Zegal," chapter IV. 



ODE TO A COYOTE — THE LADIES. 91 

ODE TO A COYOTE. 

Oh, thou glum aud gaunt old coyote, 
With quiet eyes, so meek, devout, 

Thy coy, reticent ways, denote 
The quaint suavity of a lout. 

As on the twilight thou dost gloat! 
Oh, how I long to wipe thee out I — 

To take thy weird and meagre form 

Aud hurl it 'gainst the coming storm! 

Sour art thou aud melancholly, 

Yelping a cross 'twixt howl and sneer, 

Looking measley, yea, and droUy, 
(As thy own ghost were very near 

Haunting thee amidst thy folly!) 

Skulking through the grass with fear, 

As if thy heart were filled with hate 

And paunch of food were desolate. 



THE LADIES. 

"The ladies! an' may they live foriver, 
An' die wid de roses o' swate sixteen 

Still bloomiii' on the'r bootiful faces," 
Was Pat's gallant response to "The Ladies," 
A pet toast, then added: "The'r bright sowls'd 
make 

The angels inveeons o' the'r graces." 



1)2 poems: by homer p. branch. 

THE NOBLE GALILEAN; A STUDY OF 
THE CHRIST. 

He was a perfect man! The turn and mould 

Of his lithe form were true to the artist's 

Dream of correct proportions. His stature 

Was full six feet, and he was strong of limb, 

And easy in his every movement 

As if action were naught but grace to him, 

And though he rested sparely he seldom 

Showed fatigue. The pure, pearl- like clearness 

Of his skin, showed that no taint of blood lived 

In his veins to mock his health. His body 

From disease was just as free as his soul 

Divine w^as free from sin, and Galilee 

Ne'er held other man so physically 

Perfect as the Nazarine. No feature 

Of his radiant face lacked elegance. 

The passing strangei- looked and was entranced; 

Children, knowing him not, prayed his blessing. 

He looked so good, so able and so kind; 

And those who knew him best loved him the most, 

Although blindly jealous of his holy 

Mission as Savior of the World. His eyes 

Were a deep blue, such as seem to contain 

The soul, and the tints of the rainbow lived 

Within his glance. The yeilow curls that hung 

In girlish grace back from his manly brow 

Were not effeminate; they suited well 

His kingly Jiobleness, and marked his mild, 



THE Xor.LlO (JALIl.EAN. Wl 

Though firm and ardent character. His step 

AVas confident, and his manner pi-oudly 

Pleasant, iii contrast with the studied strut 

And steridy august presence of a prince 

Of Earth. His features showed the perfection 

Of intelligent expression, and shoue 

AVith an open innocence that announced 

The pure soul within. From fairhaired boyhood 

Until the mature strengtli of thirty years 

Produced his mightiest power, he bore 

An individuality that turned 

The gaze of millions on him. The wisdom 

Of a Solomon w^as fragile compared 

With his logic and his philosorjhy, 

And with his wisdom there w^as naught of hate, 

Nor of arrogance, nor seusuousness. 

Not his the wisdom of the worldly- vvise, 

Got in adroit encounters with the fierce 

Ambitions of his fellow men. His w^as 

The inner wisdom, the keener insight 

Of a complete intelligence. He was 

Unassuming and plainly clad, yet so 

Distinguished of appearance as to be 

In any group the important figure. 

Poeticarof speech and eloquent, 

His utterance was a stream of music 

Made deeply touching by a mild pathos 

Sublimely beautiful and tender. 

Wheresoe'er he rested the people would 

Assemble to hear the philosophy 



IM poems: by homer p. branch. 

Of his God-boro arguments, and partake 

Of his miraculous bounty, marveling 

That one in the mere form of man should have 

Such knowledge and such magnetic power. 

He rebuked the proud and powerful with 

The ease and confidence of one who spoke 

To children, and lived aside from the gay 

Throng to comfort sorrow and relieve 

Distress, physician alike to the maimed 

Body and sin-festered soul, and e'en 

Restored again to life the stainless dead. 

When circumstances deeply touched his heart. 

His was a human sympathy in that 

He sorrowed at man's woes and grievous sins, 

A divine sympathy in that he sought 

To make men's burdens less and clear their minds 

Of evil. To him the hiss of the mob 

Was but a breath, the angered multitude 

A misguided passion. The sidlen frown 

Of prejudice could lay no cloud upon 

His brow, although it grieved his tender soul 

To see the wretched villainy of those 

He came to save — the hate and unreason 

Of those he came to enrich with the gift 

Of everlasting life. The Son of Man, 

Agent of God, he lived a pure life. 

Laboring constantly to lead the heart 

Of man perforce into holier ways, 

With arguments both human and divine, 

Until with maniacal desperation 



THE XOIILE (tALILKAX. 95 

The fiend-empassioued Jews destroyed their King 

In his utter beauty and glorious 

Manhood, completed the great sacritice 

That had to be made upon the altar 

Of a sin-burdened world, that the tardy 

^Sympathies of a perishing people 

Might be fanned into a flame that would prove 

A remedy for their ice-hearted ills. 

Now, in blessed spirituality, 

He broods o'er the soul of man,, a constant 

Benediction, our perpetual 

Eefuge — a diplomat to ably 

Plead Earth's cause before the King of Empires, 

The Monarch of the Spheres. O were his love — 

Exceeding love! — for transgressing, fickle 

Man, given but a fair return, this would 

Be a better, happier world— ah, yes I — 

Than dreainer ever pictured in his brain. 



THE PKAIIUES. 

Unbroken prairies of the West! 
When a boy my soul unfolded 
As I looked upon the grandeur 
Of thy rolling swells of flowers 
And t';rass, spread in laughing beauty 
For nailes beneath the summer sky^ 
Unfolded as a prairie flower 
Unfolds upon the boundless plains. 



'J6 POKJIS: BY JIOMEK P. BRANCH. 



THE 8AWKEE PE1NCE8S. 

The gentle We-wa-ha'-wa stood 
In the shade of a poplar wood 

By a murmuring brook, 
And long she strained her jet black eyes 
Afar toward the western skies 

With earnest, searching look. 

She was the Sawkees' love and pride; 
Ne'er on the sunny, bright hillside 

Had ran a girl so fair 
In all the nation great and wild; 
She was the old chief's only child, 

Princess and royal heir. 

But recently beside the grave 

Of Leaping Elk, the war-chief brave, 

Sorrowing she had knelt — 
Strong Leaping Elk, her father proud. 
Now slumbering in death's cold shroud— 

O darkly sad she felt I 

Out of the west her lover bold, 

The young brave whom her father old 

Had held in best regard, 
Would come from war with the Pawnees, 
Come with honors not won with ease, 

But fighting fierce and hard— 



THE SAWKEE TKINCESS. 1)7 

Come home to take the name of chief, 
And to assuage his people's grief 

Over their old chief dead; 
Come home to cheer the maiden's heart — 
The pretty Wewahawa's heart! — 

And then the maid to wed. 

O'er the low hill's receding swell 

Each noonday she looked long and well, 

Far up the war-trail's way; 
Three middays watching there she stood 
Like a bronze angel in the wood, 

Impatient of delay. 

O'er the hill like a sudden gale 

Swept the stark war-braves down the trail 

From out the boundless west, 
And at their head the chieftain young. 
The strong and stalwart Oui'-ba-nung', 

The bravest and the best. 

Foremost to meet them ran the maid, 
An instant then the warrior stayed 

From his careering speed. 
And caught her of divinest charms 
And fondly bore her in his arms 

Campward upon his steed. 

The twain to all were much endeared — 
Loudly the braves and women cheered: 



98 POEMS : BY HOMER P. BRANCH. 

O hail to Ouibannng! 
Hail to the Wewahawa bird! 
Hail to every Sawkee's word! 

O hail to old and yoang! 

Then came the jubilant wedding feast; 
From north and south, from the west and east, 

Came every proud Sawkoe, 
To eat and to sing, to shout and dance, 
To hurl the tomahawk and lance 

In airy, sportive glee. 

And neighboring chiefs of all degrees 
Joined in the merry festivities — 

The Pottawatamies, 
The Osages and the Omahas, 
With their retinues of braves and squaws, 

All friends of the Sawkees. 

Ne'er came a new chief into power 
'Mid the applause of a brighter hour, 

Ne'er did fair princess wed 
A better or a mightier brave. 
For ne'er did plume of warrior wave 

Upon a worthier head. 

And never had an Indian chief 
Rescued from the power of grief 

A maiden more sublime. 
Nor ruled a sturdier, braver race, 



THE SAWKEE PRINCESS. 99 

With stronger force or better grace 
III any place or time. 

Mindful of his people and proud 
That o'er their honor no sombre cloud 

Had e'er a shadow thrown, 
It was his most cherished wish and will 
To make their condition better still — 

Better than they had known. 

The Ouibanung was a hunter strong, 
He could chase the roebuck all day loni^-. 

And close with the brown bear 
In violent clutch and >vith his knife 
End the savage brute's tenacious life 

Within its trodden lair. 

He would meet straightway without excuse 
The ferocious panther and bull moose 

And make them stand at bay. 
And with the sharp-pointed hunting dart 
Could penetrate any wild beast's heart 

Fully ten rods awa3\ 

No better rider held the wild horse 
Evenly though fretful in its course; 

The tipping, light canoe. 
Bode smoothly, steadily, when his oar 
Thrust it from the grassy shore 

To plough the waters through. 



100 poems: by homer p. branch. 

In battle Ouibaniiug was brave, wise 

Id the time of peace. The nation's size ' 

Grew under his control 
Until villages of the Sawkees 
Counted by hundreds their round tepees — ■ 

Proud was the great chief's soul. 

He loved to see the papooses play 
In childish rollicking wild and gay, 

And much enjoyed the fun 
And sporting of the hardier youth 
In the rush-and-tiimble, bold, uncouth, 

And coritest stoutly done. 

And with due decorum gave the prize 
To victor in any enterprise 

Where patience, strength and wit, 
And movement nimble and cunning skill 
Gave to the game a quickening thrill 

And growing muscles knit. 

But while he encouraged the athlete, 
To wisdom's pupil he gave a seat 

At every council fire. 
And oft he uttered a moral word 
That his young men in reverance heard — 

It bettered his empire. 

Chief Ouibanung waged no wanton war 
Upon the neighboring nations, nor 
Allowed internal strife 



THE SAWKEE PRINCESS. 101 

To waste the number of his young men; 
Savannah and forest, hill and glen, 
Were blessed with peaceful life. 

And Wewahawa, his gentle bride, 
Was reverenced both far and wide 

Fo]' gracious acts and true; 
Bravest and loveliest of squaws, 
A queen in every way she was — 

Strong with her tribe she grew. 

In their painted lodge the chief and wife 
Lived a happy, long domestic life, 

And one by one there came 
Papooses to their primeval home 
For shelter within its rawhide dome. 

To eat the hunted game. 

And the two lived on till ripe old age 
Paid to them in full the sure wage 

Of time, and their full years 
Ended like some sweet, wildered dream. 
By Wyacondah's winding stream — 

The stream their name endears. 



LOVE. 



Love is a sweet and radiant flower 
That holds our senses for many an hour 
Enthralled within its bewitching power. 



102 poems: by homer p. branch. 

THE SPIKIT BEIDE.* 

Somebody comes in the gloom of night, 
Through the listless haze and the dark, 

Somebody comes like a fairy wight 

Through the stygian shades — and hark: 

Oil the winds a dream of music floats 
Like seraphine far away strains, 

And loving sighs are borne in the notes 
Through the hallowed calm that reigns. 

'Tis the song of angels floating down 
From the realms of beauty and bliss, — 

A song of the seas where sorrows drown, 
Loosed from care by the joy-nymph's kiss, 

A song that tells me in whispered breath 
That a form in that angel throng, 

Mortally parted from me by death 

Will be w^ith me the whole night long, 

O my heart is filled with love untold, 
And with joy that others know not, 

As my angel to my breast I hold 
Ev'ry night in my humble cofc. 



* The above poem was inspired by a newspaper account of a young 
man who's bride was stricken with death the first day of their wedded 
life. The j'oung man was for the time being mentally overcome by 
the sad event, and tor some months afterward declared that he re- 
ceived visits from the spirit ol his young wife, and was often, in the 
still hours of the night, heard speaking ui language of endearment to 
the lovely shadow he fancied present. 



THE SPIRIT lUU I)E. 103 

8weot spirit! she comes with a step as light 

As the heaving of virtue's breast, 
And her breath is warm and her eyes are bright 

And she lulls me to calm, sweet i-est. 

She moves about in a cloud of balm. 

And her face it is fond and fair; 
To my soul she sings a gentle psalm 

As sweet as the tenderest prayer. 

In her fond caress I sleep and dream. 

Aye, dream of the times long ago, 
When naught in Heaven on high could seem 

So benign as our lives below. 

But morning comes with its craze and its care, 
Its passions, its work and its strife. 

All the ills that I alone must bear 
Through the allotted time of life. 

Then she wafts back to the glowing strand, 

O'er the paradise-river wide. 
To the Yalleys of the Better Land — 

She's the Angel of Light, my Bride! 



FOUK CHAEMS. 

A PRETTY face. 
Good taste, a perfect form, a pure heart; — • 

Oh, would to grace 
That these four charms were never found apart! 



104 poems: by iiomek r. buancii. 

THE BLOCKADE, Oil "SNOWED IN." 

A B0YI8H EfI'USION INSPIRED BY A BLIZZARD IN 
WESTERN IOWA IN THE EARLY 'EIGHTIES. 

To SEE tlio cavorting 

Of the "beautiful snow," 
And to hear the snorting 
Of old Boreas, jo. 
As he sweeps to and fro; 
And to be on the road 
With the trains all too late for any connection; 

To sit, glum as a toad, 
At stations lonely, with nothing but reflection 
For co)npany, and that of the very worst kind. 
Is an inglorious state of things, don't you mind? 

But I'm bound to get through 

If it takes a fortnight. 
And I'll not say adieu 

To the west — by my sight! — 
Till I see a cute wight! 
Miss Maud, 'tis "thee" I'll see. 
In your presence there's no such thing as de- 
jection; 

I'm always full of glee 
AVlien with you whatever the weather's com- 
plexion; 
But this slow-poke way of getting along's enough, 
By Jove! to make a fellow feel terribly tough. 



FIIAXCES E. WILL AIM). 105 

FEANCES E. WILLAED. 

PRESIDENT NATIONAL AND WOHLD's WOMAN's 
CHRISTIAN TEMPERANCE UNION. 

Sing O soiii^- of Frances Wiliard, 
She the queen of temp' ranee workers, 
She beloved of our people, 
She whose great, fond heart the angels 
Lead in paths of grandest duty; 
Sing O sonj^' of this good woman 
Kound whose deeds tlie gentle halo 
Of a noble life is shining! 
She has lived, still lives, sublimely, 
In a way that pleases heaven. 

Much there is in life to live for 
Other than insipid pleasures, 
If we only get the richness, 
If we only get see beauty, 
If we only reach the grandeur 
Of the good for us created; 
If we turn into the bright way 
And avoid the gloomy darkness. 
Fighting back the chasing shadows; 
If we work for high achievements 
And in good deeds are not idle. 

Idlers never reach such grandeur 
As is seen in sinking manhood 
Lifted into noble uses 
By one's own God-crowned endeavors; 



106 roEMS: by iiomek r. branch. 

Idlers never see the beauty 
Of a soul of sin niibiirdeiied 
By one's own deeds of true kindness; 
Idlers never know the richness 
Poured down by exultant heaven 
Upon him or her who rescues 
From a wanton's hellward struggle 
Any fallen girl or woman. 

Ah, the grandeur, beauty, richness, 
Of great woiks of reformation. 
In both politics and morals, 
In both statesmanship and home life, 
In society and business, 
Are enjoyed by those who labor 
For the welfare of the masses. 

Some are selfish, many idle. 
Some are reckless, many callous. 
Else such wrecks and desolation 
As bestrew life's many highways 
Would not happen, could not happen, 
In a world so fair as ours. 

O the wickedness of Satan! 
O his wretched liquor hell-holes, 
AVhere the drink-lured man is poisoned 
By the alcoholic reptile 
Until morals, pride and reason 
Fall within the demon's meshes, 
And an appetite e'er gnawing 
Mocks the drinker with its horrors, 
Bobbing him of health and manhood, 



FJIANCES E. WILLAUI). 107 

KilliiiL;' all ills best ambitions, 
Until sodden, leerini>-, sloven. 
He appears among his fellows 
Only a poor, broken drunkard. 
O the sorrow of his mother, 
Of his wife or hapless children; 
O the keenness of their sorrow. 
And their shame and degradation. 
As the son, husband or father, 
Is each day led farther downward 
By his appetite for liquor. 

O the crimes, the brawls and starving, 
O the acts of cruel practice, 
O the brutish scenes enacted 
In the haunts of liquor drinkers; 
O the apathy of people 
Who could stop the drunken orgies, 
Who could stop the actions cruel, 
Who could stop the degradation 
And build up the fallen manhood. 
By their influence and ballot, 
By enacting prohibition, 
Standing ready to enforce it, 
80 the liquor-selling robbers 
And the makers of the poison 
Could no longer ply their cursed 
Devil-pleasing avocation I 

O the infamy and horror 
Of the harlot's career downward! 
O that deepest degradation, 



108 poems: by II03IKR r. branch. 

O that utter reach of woman 

Into foulest sin's low revels; 

Blessed be the hand that stayeth 

With the strength of pure compassion 

But an instant the mad current 

Of the levity immoral 

That sweeps ever to destruction! 

Hail unto the high ambition 
Of every soul endowed with earnest 
Passion for a great outc rushing 
Of impurity in woman, 
Of impurity in manhood! 

Hail to every soul enraptured 
AVith the motive of upbuilding 
In society of all grades 
Purity of deed and action, 
Purity of thought aud living, 
Influence and inspiration! 

Such a soul has Frances Willard, 
Such have been her life's impulses. 
And hearts counted now by thousands 
Chei-ish for her thoughts of kindness, 
Thoughts of loving pride and prayer. 

Sing O song of Frances Willard, 
Who has labored to the utmost. 
Who has eloquently spoken. 
Who has deftly, tersely spoken, 
Who has wisely, strongly spoken, 
Both in public and in private, 
In America beloved 



KIIAN(JES E. WILLAKI). 109 

And across the billowed ocean, 
'Gainst the alcoholic monster, 
'Gainst the i^reat destroying demon, 
The accrsnad traffic in it, 
The accnrsed using of it, 
Anywhere beneath the heavens; 
And her arguments recoided 
In books, leaflets and newspapers, 
For the cause that she espouses, 
With their blessed influences 
Keach the miJlions by their firesides. 

Hail unto our Frances Willard, 
May she live long and i^row stronger, 
And the grace of God be with her 
And the W. C. T. U. 

Hail to all the noble women 
Who have labored with Miss Willard 
For the welfaie of the fiations. 
The uplifting of the fallen. 
The destruction of temptation! 
October, 1894. 



IMPKOMPTU AT A PICNIC. 

O WHEN we are picnickin', 

'Tis joy to hear, 

The right good cheer 
Of knives and forks a klickin' 
'Mongst pies and cakes and chicken. 



110 poems: by homer p. branch. 

A PICTURE FlIOM MEMOEY. 

I SAT 'neath the shade of a hanging vine, 

On the bank of a purling stream, 
In a pleasant vale where the warm sunshine 

Gave a smile with every beam; 
And I gazed where the landscape, fair and brigiit, 

Kissed the sky in the purple haze, 
And I let my soul out on a musing flight 

Through the scenes of other days. 

And it ranged in charm -led vision down through 

The wonderful, glorious years, 
Thro' days that in beauty smiled 'neaih the blue 

Of the canopy of the spheres; 
And thro' days that were darkened with trouble, 

Through hours of danger and storm, 
Through the glitter of vanity's bubble, 

Till a picture gathered in form. 

A thousand adventures passed in review 

Within sight of my raptured eyes, 
Till the motly picture in fancy grew 

From the earth to the splendid skies. 
And swept o'er the firmament vast and stark 

In myriad gleams of light 
That leaped and darted through shadows dark 

Lilve meteors through the night. 



A PICTURE FIIO.M .MIOMOUV. HI 

MeiDories bitter and inemories sweet 

Were eiiLi^raved with magic hand, 
From manhood's growth to the tottering feet 

That carried me in babyland; 
From the present time's impressive hour 

Back into the mists of the past, 
AVhere memory faints in the dreamy bower 

Tijat faded away too fast. 

And I felt the swaying of cradle time, 

Heard little melodies of song, 
8aw a face like an angel's, sweet, sublime. 

Ever near me the whole day long; 
And I seemed to exist in a dreamy calm. 

In a realm of radiance. 
And every touch was as soothing balm 

'Neath that fond and rapturous glance. 

But the wondrous picture faded away, 

All but the kindly angel face. 
That still floated above me like a ray 

Of love-light. from the star of grace; 
And the fondest visions of m.emory 

Were a halo ai'ound its smile — 
The beautiful glories of memory 

Painted a portrait of its smile! 



112 poems: by homer p. branch. 

ODE TO THE RED CEDAR RIVER. 

Legended stream ! I stroll 

'Neath the shade of the trees 
On thj' shore, and my soul, 

Dreaming soul! tloats in ease 
On the sunbeams that dart 

O'er thy vine-vested shore — 
Yea, my soul and my heart 

Love the light that floats o'er 
Thy soft-flowing beauty — 
Thy light-rippling beauty! 

Lovely birds dip their wings 

In thy silvery course, 
And the lark, as it sings 

With an exquisite force. 
Spreads its pinions and flies 

Far away dowm the vale, 
Where thy gentle flood lies, 

A pelucid, bright trail. 
He sings of thy beauty — 
Thy shimmering beauty ! 

I look on thy current 

As it dances along — 
Thy clear, sparkling current 

As it laughs in a song 
Of harmonious glee! 

And bright eyes of lovers 



ODE TO THE RED CEDAR RIVER. 113 

In a vision I see 

'Neatli the bloom that hovers 
O'er thy romantic dells — 
O'er thy sirenized dells! 

And I think of the braves 

And the maidens of yore — • 
Of the proud, painted braves, 

And the brown maids of yore — 
How they happily sought 

Thy serene waterside 
And their love-phrases wrought 

As they looked on thy tide 
On their quaint, mirror'd forms — 
On their strong, graceful forms! 

And in fancy I see 

The canoes of the braves. 
For the bold hunters, free, 

Traveled oft on thy waves; 
The warwhoop echoes still 

In the air round about, 
Aye, for savages kill 

And take pride in the rout 
And the frenzies of war — ■ 
The wild terrors of wavl 

But the wild man is gone, 

And his primetive ways, 
Like the darkness at dawn, 

Have sunk back in the rays 



114 poems: 13 Y IIOMEK p. BPtANCII. 

Of a civilized day. 

On thy tnrtfed banks now 
Happy white cliildren play. 

And the husbandman's plow 
Cuts the loam in thy vales — 
Fertile loam in thy vales! 

Where fierce wolf and vulture 

Pierced the gloom of the wood 
Now stand homes of culture, 

Filled with all that is good 
Of wisdom and beauty 

And of firm enterprise 
And high sense of duty; 

And the prisoners cries 
Come no more from the stake — 
From the blazing war-stake! 

No more does the wild beast, 

Crazed with hunger and thirst, 
Prowl abroad for a feast, 

Ever fearing the worst 
From a stealth ier foe 

Or the hunter's sharp spear. 
No more does the mild roe 

On thy greensward appear 
With twin fawns at her side — 
Pretty fawns at her side! 

From the herd the meek kine 
And the soft-hearted sheep 



ODE TO THE RED CEDxVU RIVER. 115 

Wander down to the mine 

Of thy waters, and deep 
In the cool shadows flung 

From o'erhanging bowers 
Rest carelessly among 

The rich growth of flowers 
That carpet thy valleys — 
That nod in our valleys! 

The purple of Autumn 

Proudly hangs on thy hills — 
The deep gold of Autumn 

Tosses bright on thy hills^. 
And the leaves whisper low 

Of deft Fairy fingers 
Painting with brightest glow 

The leaflet that lingers. 
So they all wish to stay — 
Like us all wish to stay! 

A rapturous feeling 

Fills the breadth of my soul — 

Unspeakable feeling- 
Enlarges my soul — 

As I walk in the glow 

Of thy beauty, O stream ! 

O my thoughts, how they flow — 
How in grandeur I dream 

As I stroll down thy banks — 

Down thy radiant banks! 



116 poems: by iioMEii p. branch. 

A DEEAM OF THE BYE AND BYE. 

A PiiETTY visioD of a happy land 
Swept past me in my dreams; 

Swept past, returned, and then delayed — 
A laud of sunny founts and streams, 
Of vernal hills and dales, displayed 
Beneath a high-arched rainbow's brilliant band. 

The rippling music of a thousand rills, 
The charm-songs of myriad birds, 

The pur of tiny waterfalls. 
And cheery trills of pleasant words 
Uttered by sylphs within the walls 
Of crystal mansions, echoed o'er the hills. 

Small lakes with turifed shores and waters clear, 
And surfaces rippling lightly, 

Where stately swans proudly floated. 
Their white plumage shining brightly, — 
■ Upon which tame fawns gloated 
With dreamy eye, — shone sparkling far and near. 

Gardens dight in paradisical bloom 
Peeped out in genial radiance 

Through glistening vistas fi-om dells 
And deep retreats where gay dance 
And song fluctuated to swells 
Of music borne on zephyrs of perfume. 



A dki]:am of the ijve and jjve. 117 

Virgins, unsurpassed in beauty, glided 
Lightsomely through the charming scene, 

Hmiling sweetly upon all hand; 
Royal queens irj that fair demesne 
Were they, trooping in merry bands, 
By youthful and splendid princes guided. 

And all wns happiness — naught to alloy! 
No shadow but for a moment e'en 
Darkened the subtile halo that 
Poured 'round all its cheerful sheen; 
No thought of gloomy sorrow sat 
For one small moment there to check the joy. 

'Twas a picture-thought of the bye and bye; 
Bright faces, by the score were there 

Of friends loved in the pleasant past, 
And in those bowers they looked so fair 
I knew the vision could not last, — 
Like other dreams 'twould vanish from the eye. 

Indeed it fled as dreams will ever fiy. 
That glad and radiaht vision! 

The happy throngs and music soft, 
The vales and flowers Elysian, 
And leafy vine-shades hung aloft, 
Vanished, — in all but golden meaiory! 



118 poems: by homer p. branch. 

SPEING PAKK. 

TWO MILES AND A HALF SOUTHWEST OF OSAGE, lA. 

In the lied Cedar Valley's wonderland 
Of sylvan beauty, where a giant spring 
Of sparkling water gushes, fresh and cool, 
From its subteranean home, and rills 
Down a gentle incline toward the river, 
A company of Osage citizens 
Have established a summer place of rest. 
'Tis a luxurious situation; 
Tall lindens throw their ample foliage 
Over a lesser growth of hickory 
And ash, and the greensward, a velvety 
Carpet of Nature's weaving, is wide-spread 
Along the gently sloping shore, bounded 
Upon the north by a wooded hillside. 
And on the south by the inviting stream. 
It is a camp ground and watering place 
Of unusual loveliness, open 
To the river breezes and a pleasant 
Yiew, yet sheltered by a deep wealth of shade 
That suggests the forest's grandeur. 
The poet viewed in aiidafternoon. 
This favored nook of nature, and the thrill 
Of pleasure that enchants the town-worn man 
On b5'way woodland wanderings was his. 
Enhanced by the joy of others* 'Comfort 
Ileigned like a gentle goddess o'er the camp; 



SPRING PARK. 119 

The at'k'rnoon siesta in the swing-, 
The easy chair and hammock, was enjoyed 
By many. ISome read the printed story; 
Others, apparently, were fashioning 
Their own romance, with much of comedy 
Visible throughout the narative. 
At intervals along the verdant shore 
The well-appointed tents of the camp-rs 
Were arranged, where refinements of the home 
Kept company with the ruder, yet more 
Beautiful, features of rusticity. 
Groups of children played her<i and there absorbed 
With the delights presented, and workmen 
Talked pleasantly and whistled at their toil, 
As if their employment were more a pleasure 
Than a task, compassed by such surroundings. 
Toward the rear the horses stamped beside 
Their hitching posts', munching nonchalantly 
At fragrant newmown hay, their life a dream 
Were it not for the e'er annoying fly. 
The fringed clouds floated in filmy seas 
That veiled, with their lace-like tapestries, 
The intense burning of the July sun, 
Until the all-penetrating focus 
Of his rays was tempered t6 a mellow- 
Lustre that fell upon the summer scene 
With a caress of beauty. The river, 
On whose pulsing bosom mottled shadows 
Of the wooded shore danced picturesquely, 
Bore here and there a skifip, laden with youth 



120 roEMs: by iiomeii p. branch. 

And age enjoyiDg the boater's pastime. 

On the grassy bank, 'neath a leaning ash, 

Musicians drew from flute and mandolin 

Notes that thrilled the echoes in their hidden 

Fastnesses and charmed the feathered songsters 

Into joyous rival utterances. 

It is said that in the early morning, 

When the woodland dews exliale their fragrance 

And the first flood of light clothes the river 

In gay colors, the park is prettiest. 

The bathing pastime is provided for, 

And when the rosy hues of evening 

8mile their approval from the western skies. 

Splendid youths and bewitching maidens, clad 

In bright and elegant costumes, gather 

At the river's edge, and mock the naiads 

In sportive plunge and graceful adventure 

In the refreshing wave, while the older 

And less nimble of the throng sit about 

On grassy elevations and enjoy 

In their quiet way the thrill and beauty 

Of the scene; and when the gloaming passes 

And the shades of night fall slumberously 

Upon the vale, glowing lamps are lighted, 

And the organ's tones and the voice of song 

Touch the heart with melody. Lovers stroll 

Abroad beneath the whispering lindens. 

And talk gentle nothings that seem so much 

To them, until Anally young and old 

8eek their repose, and midnight's hush prevails. 



BOATING SONG. 121 

SPKING PAPtK BOATING SONG. 



Dipping, dipping, dipping. 
As we lightly rov/, 
Gaily through the water lipping 
Goes our boat like fairy trippin 



Floatinii:, floating, floating, 
Out upon the stream. 
Go we, drift we, at our boating. 
Half a dozen pleasures noting. 

Musing, musing, musing. 
Sit we restfully, 
While our drowsy boat is cruising 
Listlessly without our choosing. 

Sighing, sighing, sighing, 
Talking carelessly. 
Loving looks our words belying, 
Cupid blindly o'er us flying. 

Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming. 
Are sweetheart and I, 
While the sunlit skies are beaming 
On our love with joyous seeming. 



122 poems: by homer p. branch. 

THE COUETSHIP OF YI-NO'-WAZ. 

Brave and stalwart young Yiiio'waz, 
Chieftain of the proud I-oh'-wahs, 
Stood upou a bluff of limestone — 
High and beetling ledge of limestone — 
And looked down into the valley 
Where his braves were soon to rally 
For the great feast to Mondamin, 
He that keepeth off the famine. 

Tall and green the maize was standing, 
And the rich, sweet ears, expanding 
In the sunshine and the showers 
Showed that the Ghost of Happy Hours 
Blessings breathed on every cornfield. 
On Mondamin, on the corn yield! 
By tiiousands in their husk-leaves silky 
Hung the luscious maize-ears milky. 

All along the laughing river, 
Manitou the Mighty Giver 
Had bestowed his riches ample, 

Note —The scenes of this poem start at a point on the Red Cedar 
river, above the mouth of the bheil Roca, and end at the same place. 

"Umchiniotaws," a southern squad of the Ojibways. 

"Gitchidamus," (Big Country), southern Iowa , the ancient home of 
the Osage Indians, 

"Ivand of ash<-s water," the alkali region west of the Big Sioux river. 

"Makobal," the rich grazing lands between the Little Sioux and Des 
Moines (Mikonang) rivers, where immense herds of buflfalo, antelope 
and deer pastured before routed b3' white hunters. 

"Wapsivo'nn," (Little Sioux). River of Big Fishes, so called on ac- 
count < f the almost iabulous .schools oi buffalo fish and stureeon that 
annually sought its head waters during the spawning irtason, before 
tuilldams absiructed all sucii migralions. 



THE COURTSIIir OF VI-NO/WAZ. 

And no foe had dared to trample 
In the cornfields of Yino'waz 
Nor approach the stern loh'wahs. 
With these reasons for elation 
Proud and happy was the nation. 

On the morning of the morrow, 
AVith his hatchet, bow and arrow, 
Lance and knife and knotty warclub — 
His loh'woh magic warclub. 
Made of ironwood enchanted 
And by warrior spirits haunted — 
Every chief and brave would revel 
On the dance-ground wide and level. 

And while boasting of the glory 
Won in battles long and gory 
With their foes, the Um-chi-mo'-taws, 
And the brutal, wild Dahcotahs, 
They would yell and dance around the 
Harvest pole, and loudly pound the 
Tom-tom, each brave fiercely painted- 
Dance until the last had fainted. 

Then the maize-ears, sweet, enticing, 
In a quantity sufficing. 
Would by women be fried, roasted, 
Boiled with game, or nicely toasted 
In burnt meal; then every maiden 
Of the tribe, with baskets laden, 



123 



124 poems: by homer p. branch. 

Would pass round the well cooked, steaming 
Corn and meat, with fragrance teeming. 

Then the warriors and women, 
Looking proud and grand and trim in 
Savage dress and plumes that fluttered, 
Would partake; and loudly uttered 
Exclamations of rejoicing 
Would set e'en the echoes voicing 
Songs and praises — and Mo n dam in 
Would be victor over famine. 

This would all come on the morrow, 

But out upon the plains, far, oh 

Far, the piercing vision 

Of Vino'waz made incision 

Toward the westward, tow^ard the prairies, 

Where the red rose, Moza'riz, 

Was encamped with Nizzeho'bel, 

The great chief, her brother noble. 

Just a thought he gave the feast day. 
Just a moment down the east lay 
His glance, then the glad swelling 
Of his heart where love was dwelling 
Crowded out the thoughts of dancing 
Round the harvest pole. Still glancing 
From the valley to the prairies, 
All his thought was of Moza'riz. 



THE COURTSHIP OF VI NO'-WAZ. 125 

III Yino'vvaz' heart divinely 
Rilled the maiden, and supinely' 
Lay the hours when her twinkling, 
Saucy, loving eyes ceased sprinkling 
O'er his soul a' spray of sweetness. — 
For her bravery, beauty, neatness, 
AVas this Indian princess famous 
In the land of Gitchida'mus. 

Nizzehobel, her ji;reat brother, 

Rescued once Vino'vvaz' mother 

Frojn the torture of the war-stake — 

Cruel horrors of the war-stake — 

In the land of Owano'taz 

Of the infamous Dahcotahs, 

In the land of ashes-water 

Where her young men met with slaughter, 

Tuscamen'ta, the great squaw chief, 
Was in search of a Ponca thief 
And his dark Dahcotah cronies. 
Who had driven off her'ponies. 
While she hunted on the prairies — 
Near the Walled Lakes of the prairies! 
Far she traveled, far she sought them, 
And at last she nearly caught them. 

But the Ponca, Owendon'to, 

With reinforcements turned back onto 

Tuscamen'ta, the brave mother 



126 poems: by IIOMEK p. BRANCH. 

Of Yino'waz and his brother 

Crazy Moose, the reckless rider — 

Both fell fighting close beside her. 

Yino'waz was not hurt severely, 

He was knocked down, stunted merely. 

Fiendishly the Ponca fought her. 
Fiercely raged the ghastly slaughter, 
But not until her braves lay stricken 
Did her heart begin to sicken — 
Still she fought and was not taken 
Until all her strength was shaken 
By the bloody wounds upon her — 
Nuslika! but she fought with honor! 

Then the brutal cowards tied her 
To a post — with fire tried her — 
But as they began their cheering, 
There came rushing and careering 
Through the camp a hundred horses 
Bearing Nizzeho'bel's forces. 
Soon Dahcotah braves, all ages, 
Fell beneath the fierce Osages. 

Yino'waz soon resuscitated, 
Looked upon the foes he hated. 
Saw the stark corpse of his brother, 
Saw in camp his fettered mother, 
Saw the young men, the Osages, 
Coming swiftly for the wages 



THE couiiTSiiir of vi-no'-waz. 127 

The Dahcotah reds had stolen 
From the great chief Zibano'liin. 

Sad and weird the fruits of war! oh 
How heavily lays the sorrow 
E'en on savage hearts! Vino'waz 
Wept upon the dead loh'wahs — 
But he laughed when Nizzeho'bel, 
From the grasslands of Mako'bal, 
Led his young men fierce and hearty 
Upon the Dahcotah party. 

"Nizzeho'bal, be my brother. 

Thou hast saved my noble mother," 

Was Yino'waz' gallant greeting 

To the youDg chief at their meeting. 

"Father's wigwaui in Mako'bal 

Is open, come with Nizzeho'bel, 

Be my guest." Thus spake the chieftain — 

The Osagcs' bravo young chieftain. 

To their home far to the southward — 
Bright, green prairies of the southward — 
Stopping not for ceremonies, 
The Osages on fleet ponies 
Bore the rescued brave loh'wahs, 
Tuscaraen'ta and Vino'waz — 
Bore away the booty captured. 
Every untamed heart enraptured. 



128 poems: by homer p. branch. 

Cyclones seldom travel faster 
Down the torn track of disaster 
Than coursed then those wild Osages 
Down the trail worn through the ages 
By the passing of the warbands — 
Constant passing of the warbands — 
On excursions, vengeful, gory, 
Daring and depredatory. 

By the sunny Wapsivo'lun, 

By the lodge of Zibano'lan, 

By the wigwams of his village 

Where his warriors brought their pillage. 

There the valliant party halted, 

Triumphant, proud, exalted, 

And demanded that the nation 

Give a fitting celebration. 

Warsongs long and loud wore chanted 
Bound the scalp-post stoutly planted; 
The successful braves w^ere lauded, 
Tuscamen'ta was applauded. 
And Yino'waz pressed to rattle 
Off a speech about the battle — 
Then the dog feast! Its grand nature! 
Expression lacketh nomenclature! 

But Vino'waz cared but little 

For this product of the kettle. 

And toward evening sought the wigwam- 



THE COURTSHIP OF VI-NO'-WAZ. 121) 

The imposing, colored wigwam — 
Of Zibaiio/laii, the great father, 
To avoid the boastful bother 
Of the r(ickless, wild Osages, 
Male and female of all ages. 

As Yiuo'waz lightly parted 
The lodge door, out past him darted, 
Like a gleam from the elysian 
Land of dreams, a happy vision, 
And the vision was Moza'riz, 
The wild red rose of the prairies, 
Zibano'lan's youngest daughter — 
Gracefully Vino'waz caught her, 

With voice musical and tender, 
In words that could not offend her. 
The young chief spoke, captivated — 
Spoke for hours, fascinated — 
And his pauses, they were broken 
By her timid answers, spoken 
In low tones of honeyed sweetness — 
Yoice of pure maiden sweetness! 

While the maiden listened to him, 

Her coy soul began to woo him. 

Though with outward actions clever 

It was clearly her endeavor 

To appear as only kindly^ 

O strange, strange love, how blindly 



130 poems: by homer p. bkancii. 

Leadest thou young hearts together, 
Binding them with cupid's tether! 

Half a moon Vino'waz stayed there, 
While his mother's wounds with staid care 
Were healed up in good condition 
By the able camp physician; 
And the days were full of sunshine — 
Brightest kind of lover's sunshine! — 
Great with joy the days were laden 
For the young chief and the maiden. 

Zibano'lan grandly blessed them — 

With an old chief's warm heart blessed them. 

When they spoke to him of marriage; 

Then he offered safe, free carriage 

For Yiuo'waz and his mother, 

Under guard of the chief's brother, 

To the River of the Woodland, 

Tuscaojen'ta's nation's goodland. 

When the feast of wild strawberries 
Had transpired, then would Moza'riz 
Be with pomp escorted thither. 
And Nizzeho'bel would be with her. 
Thus the Indian lovers parted, 
Son and mother homeward started — 
With dispatch they made the journey 
Back to their ov/n w^oodlands ferny. 



THE COUKTSIIir OF YI NO' WAZ. 131 

They were cheered with lusty pleasure, 
Cheered unto the fullest measure, 
By the hordes of staunch loh'wahs. 
And the hearty young Vino'waz 
Was with warmth congratulated 
When 'twas known he would be mated 
With the charming maid Moza'riz, 
The sweet wild rose of the prairies. 

While the people of his nation 
Joyfully made preparation 
For the feast of fruitful cornfields — 
Ample and abundant cornfields — 
While the corn the squaws were cooking, 
He stood on the high bluff, looking 
O'er the flower-waving prairies 
For his coming love, Moza'riz. 

As he looked he fell to musing, 
Through his inmost soul infusing 
Bright thought-pictures of the beauty 
Of Moza'riz, of his duty 
As a husband to the fairy 
Fate permitted him to marry; 
Thinking of her thus he chanted — 
8carse above a whisper chanted: 

"She has eyes of hazel sweetness. 

Eyes that beam with love's completeness, 

And the swaying of her tresses, 



132 poems: by homer r. bkancil 

And her every motion blesses, 
Blesses with a charmed motion, 
Adding to my heart's devotion 
All the pleasures of love's gladness, 
All the pain's of lover's madness. 

"Like the snnfish in the river, 
In the shallows all a-qniver, 
Where the pebbles gleam and sparkle. 
When no floating cloudlets darkle. 
Flash her eyes, with beauty glowing, 
All her lovely nature showing 
In the language of her glances, — 
In her soul-enriching glances! 

"Her soft foot-fall 's like the rabbit — 
Every movement, every habit, 
Like a bird or harmless creature, 
Lacking naught in any feature 
That would win a rugged lover; 
E'en the stars that shine above her 
On clear nights give her the honor 
To flash all their rays upon her." 

Then o'er the prairies he descried her 
Escort coming; soon beside her 
Rode Vino'waz on a prancing- 
Snow white broncho, and advancing 
With her, introduced with witt}-, 
Happy words, his young wife pretty, 



THE COUKTSIIir OF VI-NO'-WAZ. 133 

Aiid the people of his nation 
Their voices raised in aduhition. 

And the feast to rich Mondam'in, 
He that wardeth off the famine, 
Was spread out before tiie noble 
Warriors of Nizzeho'bel; 
With the wedding feast 'iwas blended 
And with double joy was ended, 
Long o'er the wild and brave loh'wahs 
lluk'd Moza'riz and Vino'vraz, 



POETRY'S THOUGHT. 

A CADENCE enchanting on the echoes is sweeping 

In passionate, voluptuous strains, thro' the vale; 
Its tenderness, its wildness, its laughing, its 
weeping, 

Pulsate in thrilling tremors fore'er on tlie gale, 
A various story it tells in its sobbing, 
Of hearts sick and weary, hearts madly throbbing; 
A beautiful story it tells in its laughing. 

Of souls full of sweetness, of glory and gladness. 
And charms of love-nectar that gay souls are 
quaffing — 

Of sunbeams e'er drowning the shadows of 
sadness! 
'Tis the hallowed music of Poetry's thouglit. 
Its melodies entrancing come ever unsought. 



134 poems: by homer p. branch. 

A HAKVEST EXTBAYAGANZA. 

WITH COMPLIMENTS TO EDGAR ALLEN POE, 

Hear the singing of the sickle — 
Teeth of steel, 
Cutting down the golden grain in a happy, wild 
I'efrain, 

That applauds the farmer's gain ! 
How^ it tiiikles, tinkles, tinkles, 
In the morning hours bright; 
How it twinkles, twinkles, twinkles, 
All the day until the night. 
While the reel 
Passing o'er the. nodding grain with an airy light 
refrain, 

Seems to thrill 
With the Shrill 
Chirrup of the flying sickle! 
Oh, the music of the sickle, sickle, sickle, sickle, 
sickle. 

How it cackles with delight 
While the sunshine's glittering sheen 
Dances 
With a thousand jaunty glances 
On McCormick's steel machine — 
With many a coy reminder 
On the brij^ht McCormick binder, 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 



A IIAIIVEST EXTRAVAGANZA. 135 

To the rattle and the prattle of the sickle, 
To the utter joyful flutter of the sickle, 

Of the sickle, sickle, sickle, 
To the music of the merry, cheery sickle. 

Hear the sickle in its ^fjjlee — 
Hear it rins^! 
What a world of richest wealth, what a world of 
food and health. 

Does it bring! 
As the beaded sweat it trickles 
Down the farmer's breast it tickles 
Him, for don't he hear the nickels 
Klinking, klinking, klinkiug, 
And all in tune! 
What a liquid ditty floats 
Over barley, wheat and oats. 
To the prairie hen that listens while she gloats 
On the stubble she will soon 
Forage for her meals! 
What a gush of euphony voluminously peels 
O'er the broad and ripened fields as the new Mc- 
Cormick wields 

Its power o'er the yields 
Of the harvest's princely boon ! 
How it swells! 
How it dwells 
On the future! How it tells 
Of the rapture that im pells 
To the loud and gladsome ringing 



136 poems: by homer p. branch. 

Of the sickle, 
Of the sickle, sickle, sickle, 
To the rhyming and the chimiug of the sickle! 

Hear the chorus of the sickles — 
Over hills and in the dells. 
What a tale of joy and thrift their turbulency tells ! 
Oh, the drawing of the twine with a motion half 
divine 

Through the attachment neat and fine 
That binds bundles with such grace, 
And every one in place. 
That each movement is a poe.n in itself! 
Not a fairy, nymph or elf. 
Of river, land or ocean, ever moved with lighter 
motion, 

And this pretty binding notion, 
How it dances 
As the good machine advances — 
The McCormick bright and new. 
The McCormick strong and true — 
Through flax, timothy, rye, 
Humming, singing merrily. 
While the harvest hands rejoice, and with whistled 
note and voice. 

Join the sickle's jocund cheer, 
Sweet and clear. 
For the grain is cleanly cut and the bundles nice- 
ly bound! 

Ah, happily they listen to the sound 



A IIAUVKST EXTRAVAGANZA. 137 

Hear the Uiugliter of the sickles — 
Merry chimes! 
Not a sob, uor sigh, nor groan, not a muffled 
monotone. 

Comes from ^nome or fiend or ghoul 
With a grief for heart or soul, 
For the Spirit of the Times 
Rolls a pa3an from the sickles. 
He dances and he sings, he chirrups and he rings, 
And his merry bosom swells 

With the pa3an of the sickles, 
And he halloos and he yells, 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme 
To the ptean of the sickles, 
And he proclaims that he who sows and reaps 
Is the noblest work of God, 

Aud he gambols and he leaps 
Over stubble, over sod, 
To the tlashing and the clashing of the sickles, 
And in a glad acclaim 
Utters long and loud the name 

Of McCormick.* 
No statesman, scholar, actor, 
Has been such a benefactor 
To the farmers of this nation; 
Aye, the Spirit of the Times 
Swells with happy annimation, 

=^= Cyrus H. McCormick, the noted inventor and manufacturer of 
harvesting machinery. 



138 poems: by homer p. branch. 

And he rhymes and he chimes 
With the peean of the sickles, 
As in a hundred phases 
He gives utterance to the praises 
Of the ingenuit}' and sliill, 
The sublimity of will 
OfMcCormick! 
Oh, the sickles, sickles, sickles. 

How they clang and clash and ring, 
What a melody they iiing 
On the bosom of the palpitating air. 
As McCormick's bright new reaper, 
Elvery year improved and cheaper, 
Chatters round the harvest field so fair! 
Ah, the rich and radiant harvest — 
The full and glorious harvest 

That the sickles cut with glee! 
Merrily the farmer's soul is swelling 
While the sickles keen are telling 
Of the bounty God has given from the bosom of 
high heaven 

To the tiller of the soil 
In the cheery, gay turmoil 
Of the sickle. 
Of the sickle, sickle, sickle. 
In the utter joyful flutter of the sickle. 



A DREA3ILAND P^XPERIENCE. 139 

A DEEAMLAND EXPEPiIENCE. 

WRITTEN EOE MY FllIENDS, THE CHILDREN. 

After my day's work was ended, 
All the broken moments mended, 
I sat down before my blazing 
Office tire, and in it gazing, 
Lost myself in idle musing. 
Pleasant thoughts of children using. 
Giving to good necromancy 
Full control of all my fancy. 

As the darkness deepened 'round me, 
Shadow-bogies could have found me, . 
Sitting, dozing in my arin chair. 
Dreaming it was pleasant, warm there, 
Dreaming that the summer grasses 
Waved to greet the lads and lasses, 
As they raced in joyous frolic 
Through a woodlot gay, bucolic. 

Ah, the beaming of their faces. 
And their lithe and supple graces 
As they ran and jumped and gambol'd. 
As they danced and romped and rambled, 
Laughing, singing, crowing, shouting. 
Showed that they enjoyed their outing! 
How the beauties of the wildwood 
Charm the happy hearts of childhood! 



140 poems: by iiomeii p. branch. 

There at iiooii with many capers 
They spread out some old newspapers 
On the grass, then laid their luncheon, 
And at once began their raunchin.' — 
Happy e'er is childhood's dinner, 
All tastes good to life's beginner. 
And dyspepsy does not 'fright him, 
Victuals do naught but delight him. 

Meat and jam, preserves and pickles, 
Charm the children, and it tickles 
iVll the youngsters of all classes 
To munch away at "bread an' 'lasses;" 
And at picnics — oh, the glory 
Ne'er was told in song or story 
Of the good taste of the cooking 
Done by mammas all good looking. 

But the sunshine shrank and faded, 

And in little faces (shaded 

By the dream-clouds), looks showed, tearful, 

They were of coming showers fearful. 

From the denseness of a dream-cloud 

Came a clap that didn't seem loud, 

Just a muffled thunder-rumble, 

But it made the children humble. 

Then the rain came pouring, gusliing. 
Then the children all came rushing. 
But to hail and snow the storm turned. 
And the summer glad and warm spurned 



A DIJEAr.ILANI) EXPERIENCE. 141 

Tlie cold only just one minute, 

For the snow soon wrapped within it 

All the little trouble faces, 

Frose them stiff there in their places. 

And the biting storm it filled me 
Witli a coldness that soon chilled me. 
And I felt a dreadful stinging 
As of nettles to me clinging, 
And I felt a weak'ning numbness, 
And an overpow'j-ing dumbness, 
80 I fell and could not utter 
One poor word, not e'en a mutter. 

And I heard the awful moaning 

Of the children dying, groaning, 

AVhile the pallor and the starkness 

Of the snow "sank into darkness; 

Then a yell, like shout of Hindoo, 

Just outside my office window. 

Brought me back from Dreamland's features, 

Back to Earth and earthly creatures. 

And I found I had been dreaining. 
While the erstv/hile cheerful ^leamin<:r 
Of my fire had sunk to ashes. 
And old Jack Frost's chilly lashes 
They had stung my toes and fingers 
With a keenness that still lingers 
In the pangs of rheumatism — 
Most as bad as if I'd "friz 'em." 



142 poems: by iiomeu p. branch. 

SEAVER'S GROVE. 

On the shore of the Red Cedar, 
West shore of the charming Cedar, 
Two miles up stream from West Mitchell, 
On ttJe homestead of our kindly 
Neighbor, Mr. Colben Seaver, 
Stands a grove of stalwart basswoods, 
Strong and graceful in their beauty; 
And they sigh a mystic language. 
And emit a pleasant fragrance. 
As the summer winds caress them, 
Lifting, in their arms transparent, 
Tossing boughs and hanging blossoms. 

Grimly stalk the giant shadows 
In the morning through this wildwood, 
As the breezes from the river 
Coax the basswoods into swaying 
To and fro in grand obeisance; 
Proudly in their solemn silence 
Move- the shadows hither, thither,. 
As the stirring winds of evetide 
Push and crowd among the treetops; 
And at noon among the thick boughs, 
Even when the days are hottest, 
Cooling draughts are always moving 
Like the soothing breath of fairies. 

Clear and sparkling lays the river 
With the sunlight bright upon it, 
Only where the hill abruptly 



SEAVEIl's GROVE. 143 

Lifts its brow of scraggy limestone 
And throws shadows o'er the water, 
Or the basswoods, leaning outward, 
Spiead reflections on the river; 
But the stream is just as fjretty 
In the shade as in the sunlight. 

When the robe of night is fallen, 
And the moon deploys her splendors 
On the surface of the water, 
Then the black bass and the sunfish, 
Full of playfulness and frolic, 
Leap into the mellow moonbeams, 
And enjoy the night-time's freshness. 
And absorb the fresh air needed 
To support them on the morrow 
When in deep pools lowly hiding 
They seek refuge from the anglers 
And the fierce glare of the sunshine. 

Sing O song of Colben Seaver, 
Of his pretty wooded acres, 
On the bank of the Red Cedar, 
Where the green ferns and wild flowers 
Grow in all their native beauty. 

In this grove the lads and lasses 
Love in picnics to assemble, 
Love to gambol o'er the mosses. 
Love to scamper o'er the greensward. 
Eat their luncheon 'neath the shadows 
Of the dark trees widly spreading, 
And take boat rides on the river. 



144 poems: by iiomeu r. ukancii. 

Here the young man and the maiden 
Love to stroll in days of summer, 
While the goldfinch and the robbin, 
Warbling thrush and gentle linnet, 
Pipe and chatter in the treetops, 
Sing and twitter in the bushes; 
And the lovers, bird and human, 
Feel the comfort and the beauty 
Of this playground in the shadows. 
Here the town-worn man and woman 
In July and torrid August 
Love to spend a long vacation 
Tenting in the quasi-forest. 

Each and all can play at croquet, 
Eest at ease in drowsy hammocks, 
Take a plunge in the cool river, 
Sail or row a boat at pleasure, 
Drop a fish-hook in a bass-pool 
And secure sooae finny treasures. 
And enjoy a hundred pastimes 
In this pretty nook of nature. 



A WINTEE FACT. 

Boreas, that wild old wizzard, 
Has sent down another blizzard. 
And the snow is on a tear 
In the bosom of the air. 



IN THE DKEA3I-DKIFTINO WALTZ. 145 



GLEAMS OF LIGHT. 

As THE wavering gleams of: the mooiiliglit 
Dart o'er the beautiful sheen of the dewy plain's 
Expanse, searching out each little flower 
That they may give fresh richness to its small 
Life, and beauty to its hue, by kissing 
The bloom that night-time hides, so the kindly 
Smiles that play unforced upon upon the faces 
Of those dear to us do beam into our 
Souls and kiss back to a holier warmth 
The fading radiance of kind regard 
And true friendship that may be for a time 
Completely overcast with Sorrow's night. 



IN THE DPvEAM-DEIFTING WALTZ. 

In the waltz, sweet waltz! we move in a trance 

Of enchanting delight, 

Whirling, merrily dight, 

'Neath the clear and bright 
Gleam of the fairylike lamps overhead — 
Gleam of the soft-shining lamps overhead! — 

Aye, at every well 

Of the orchestra's swell. 

The charming strains impel 
Us through the bewitching, dream-drifting dance. 



146 roEMs: by homer p. branch. 

FAIIMER JONES ON SPUING POETS. 

When the leaves and flowers open, 
And the hu.-bandman is liopin' 
Without e'en a shade 'o reason 
That the beauty o' the season 
Will remain till after stackin,' 
'Tis a time when there's no lackin' 
Of that warmth o' gush and feelin' 
Which sets amateurs to reelin' 
Off full many lines and stanzas 
With descriptions long o' pansies — 
Padded with the talk o' lovers, 
Sad and sentimental lovers! 

O the glory o' the roses 

And the other early posies! 

O the sunshine and the gloamin'! 

How they always set to roamin' 

Yerdant bards through compositions 

That bespeak their wild ambitions, 

But give out no testimony 

That appears to touch the stony 

Hearts o' readers that peruse 'em 

Only — only — to abuse 'em! 

Yea, the greenhouse sprinsj time poet 

He feels wondrous but can't show it. 

These here poets that awaken 
Only when their wits are shaken 



FARMER JONES ON SPRING TOETS. 147 

By fine changes iu the weather, 
They're all sad birds of a feather; 
For v;ith all their fancy ravin' 
'Bout the springtime's good behavin,' 
They don't touch ye, only try to — 
They are not the bards to tie to! 
Give to me the poet songster 
Whose big, honest heart belongs ter 
All the seasons, dry or rainy — 
But I want him sound and brain3\ 

The bard that refines ray daughter, 
Just as reg'lar poets ought ter; 
The bard that can be a mentor 
To my hired man and renter. 
Get my boys to love their mother. 
Daddy, sister and each-other, 
Make us v/ith our lot contented 
'Stead o' drivin' us demented; 
Knows a good thing when he sees it, 
Melts the heart and then don't freeze it: 
He's the poet whose spring writiu' 
1 can read and take delight in. 



AMATEUK FOOTSTEPS. 

To THE parent there's nothing so poetically sweet, 
As the pat-a-pat-patter of the baby's little feet. 
Without it is his tiny laugh or merry prattle-cackle 
As he roils about the floor or plays amid his tackle. 



l-iS POEMS: BY HOMER P. BRANCH. 



DAYS OF YOKE. 

Down the listless, peaceful shore, 
Of the dreaming thoughts of yore, 

Through the olden, 

Aye, and golden, 
Recollections of the past. 

To-night my soul is roving — - 
Iloving 'ueath the mellow skies 
Of those pleasant memories — 

Beguiled in transport, moving 
Thro' the vaulted, vague and vast 
Region of youth's early bower, 
Basking in its sun and shower. 
Bless the memory of those days, 
Bless their warm recurring rays. 



THE MOTHER'S HEART. 

A mother's is the warmest heart, 
In life she acts the sweetest part 

It is most truly said; 
A mother's is the fondest tear 
That falls upon the coffined bier 

From mourner o'er the dead. 



CIII-MONG/-IIA, THE BANISHED SACHEM. 149 

CHIMONGHA, THE BANISHED SACHEM. 

A LEGEND OF THE IOWA RIVEll. 

The autumn loaves have hung in glory on 
The forest trees as many hundred times 
As there are thumbs and fingers on both hands 
Since the first human footfall sounded 
In the Yale of the Kiver of Flowers. 

This region had lain in prestine beauty 
Since the world's first waking, unfrequented 
By humankind, for it had blandly slept 
Beneath a charm of legends, one of which was 
That the Ghost of Winds had laid a spell • 
Upon the land, sacred against the tread 
Of mortals, because of its wonderful 
And bewitching loveliness, and reserved 
It for his majesty, the great Sun Gotl, 
Asa private hunting ground for seasons 
Of momentary respite and gala 
Pastime. No red man dared to set his feet 
Upon the blessed soil; 'twas even deemed 
A sacrilege to speak of it elsewise 
Than in reverential phrase. 

This sacred 
Superstition kept the lovely river. 
It contributaries and countless hills 
And dells, its forests and broad savannahs, 



150 poems: by homer p. BPtANCII. 

Free from the brutality of the chase, 

And the meaner scenes of human carnage 

And butchery such as marked that dark time. 

Only through the far-reaching ambition 

Of a great chief did the discovery 

Come that the ancient and honored belief 

Was but a legendary memory. 

Chimongha was the great medicine chief 
Of the Konocwas, the powerful tribe 
That introduced as food the yellow maise 
To the Algonquins and the Iroquois. 
In both intelligence and religion 
This mighty tribe bore a close relation 
To Uie people of the pueblo towns, 
And its reigning line of sachems cume from 
The Nahua race, the strong, yellow Aztecs 
Of the southwest. 

The Konocwas were, in laws, 
Habits and industries, superior 
To the Tartar-like hordes that roamed 
About them, and to whom they imparted 
Their weird superstitions of the Happy 
Hunting Grounds, angels of help and hindrance, 
Ghosts of destiny, and the great Sun God, 
Whose body was the mighty orb of day, 
From which he sent the warm light, his presence, 
To comfort men, his children, and who, when 
He retired at evening to rest, sent 
Forth his quee)), the moon, and the princely stars, 



cm MONG-IIA, THE BANISHED SACHEM. 151 

His warriors, to watch the Earth, his best 

And favorite creation. In fact they 

Credited aught of worthy principles, 

Organization and enlightenment, 

That could be found among the denizens 

Of the wilderness, to the influence 

Of the great Sun God, Wagha Manitou. 

Chimongha was adventurous. He looked 
With longing eyes toward the sacred region. 
As a sachem of his tribe he was wont 
In times of discord and of turbulance 
To use such diplomatic arts as would 
Make the most favorable impression. 
Oft had he used parables and fictions 
At the council-fire, as illustrations 
"To influence his people happily; 
And well he knew from the effects produced 
That some of these creatures of his fancy 
Would live in history. If his fictions 
Were perpetuated as solemn facts, 
Why not believe that traditionary 
History was largely fiction? Legends 
So resembled the improbable 
In every case that he was led to doubt 
That any were substantial in detail. 
Biased by his desire to explore 
The beauties of the forbidden region, 
His infidelity became so marked 
That he began to disregard this most 



152 poems: by homer p. branch. 

Sacred tradition of his tribe — to look 
Forward to the time when he would traverse 
The valley of the Kiver of Flowers, 
Occupy it with an intelligent 
Band of picked followers, and live his life 
Within its glorious precincts, despite 
Any spell that ghost or sprite may have laid 
Upon it. 

Many in authority 
Are thus brought face to face with blind error; 
Not because they are deeper thinkers than 
Others of their people, but because they 
Must think more, and forced thought peers thro' 

the mists. 
New discoveries bring new ambitions, 
And most ambitions are too fierce to droop 
Beneath the dull frown of superstition. 
Too true it is that many memories 
Known to be sacred are sacrificed 
Upon the weird altar of ambition. 
But still if it were not for Ambition's 
Insatiable hunger and unrest", 
Progressive thought and action would recede 
Into regardless imbecility. 
It were better to direct amoition 
In the more excellent paths than to rail 
At its potency. 

Chimongha brooded 
O'er this, his favorite passion, for moons 



CIII-310NG'-IIA, THE BANISHED SACHEM. 153 

Enough to mark a season, tlien disclosed 

The cherished enterprise to a council 

Of his warmest friends, and with glowini^ face 

And rapt enthusiasm eloquently 

Portra^^ed the glories of th3 wild valley, 

Logically disjointed the legend 

That had kept it shrouded in mystery, 

And argued the sin of letting so great 

A part of the Sun God's best creation 

Hemaiu in primitive disuse. What need, 

He asked, had the Sun God of hunting grounds? 

In his opiiiion the gi'eat Creator 

Sought his pleasure otherwise. The Sun God 

Would not without important cause destroy 

That which he had created, otherwise 

He would not be so kind and merciful 

To transgressing man. The charnai weapons 

Of the chase were tools too mean for a god 

To play with, were it possible for gods 

To stoop to cruel and insipid sport. 

The Great Father devoured not his own 

Creations, but subsisted on the life 

That filled the vast and boundless universe 

With power to swing the cover of heaven 

Above a thousand worlds. What need had such 

A Grand Being of game from the forests 

That nodded in vernal splendor on the banks 

Of the Eiver of Flowers? Earth was made 

For man and the lesser creatures. Legends 

Eested upon word of mouth, and shifted 



154 poems: by homer p. BPtANCII, 

With the varied interpretations 
Of conflicting understandings, and could 
Not be relied upon as history. 
Traditions that divined that any spot 
Of Earth was hallowed with any charm 
That would antagonize the happiness 
Of mau were meet for investigation. 



Thus he argued, and when we consider 
His lack of knowledge, and the barbaric 
Squalor of all his intellectual 
Environments, we must admit 
That he argued wisely. 

The assembled 
Chiefs sat mute and motionless with wonder. 
The crazed audacity of Chimongha 
Astonished them. Had the Black Ghost of Night 
Darkened his heart and dimned his eyes that such 
Treasons against the sacrtid traditions 
Of his tribe should fill his soul? 

Chimongha 
Asked for volunteers to accompany 
Him on a tour of exploration northward 
Into the wonderful region, but none 
Kesponded. The chiefs left the council-fire 
Immediately, and around each one 
There soon gathered a group of listeners. 



ciii-mong'-iia, the banished sachem. 155 

ChimoDgha's whileome friends and councilors 
Were now his bitter enemies, advising 
His pbratry-folk to do him violence. 

The sachem was remembered lovingly 
By his people for acts of heroism 
In war and generosity in piece, 
And although the report of his wanton 
And sacrilegious speech threw a pall 
Of horror over each heart, there was none 
To do him injury. Again the old 
Men gathered around the council-fire. 
And as eloquent tongues portrayed in fierce 
Purturbauce the lunacy and treason 
Of the great chief and none defended, 
Chimongha stood and gazed with scorn upon 
The superstition-blinded multitude. 
They looked upon him as a maniac, 
And when the council resolved to banish 
Him forever from the tribe, the voiceless 
Quiet of the caves could not have been more 
Silent in his behalf than w^as the tribe 
That had been w^isely guided by his hand 
For forty seasons. With look of pity 
On their simplicity he strode away, 
Out into the still night, and bent his way 
Toward the valley whose distant beauty 
Had lured him from the superstitions 
Of his generation and illumined 
His soul with a brighter intelligence. 



156 poems: by iiOMEii r. branch, 

PART II. 

Chimoiigha, tbe banished sachem, waiKlered 
Alone by the bright Kiver of Flowers; 
The purple and gold of the Autumn hung 
On the great forest trees, the hillsides shone 
With the ripened grass, and the falling leaves, 
Colored with all the varied, beautiful 
Hues of nature, lay heaped in the ravines. 
Gathered in the hollows, or were carried 
To and fro by the restless, shifting winds. 
Proud w^as Chimongha's soul as he feasted 
His vision on the princely goodliness 
Of his new domain — its Autumn glory! 
The jutting bluffs, o'er hung w4th climbing vines 
And crowned with shrubbery, the rounded hills, 
Clothed with underbrush and tall rugged trees, 
The undulating plains, the broad valleys, 
The sheltered dells and sharp declivities, 
'Mid which a clear and sparkling river wound 
Along between banks lined with the tossing 
Tassels of the golden rod and sumac. 
Lent a charming sense of lonely beauty 
To the scene — a sense of quiet grandeur 
Such as reposes only in a rich 
And fertile territory yet unchanged 
By the relentless industry of man. 
The banished chief felt the sublimity 
That he breathed and saw, but from his o'ercharged 
Heart the yearnings of a lonely man bursted forth 



ClII-MONG-HA, THE BANISHED SACIIEM. 157 

In a psalm of praise to the kind goddess 
Oi: the affections. Thus Chimougha prayed: 

"Oh, Mother! food of man's breath, Holy Air! 
Lend thy attention to the sachem's prayer! 
Thou that temperest the chill wind until 
It tills us with a warm and pleasant thrill, 
Thou that luUest the passions of the heart 
And sooth est every pain and aching smart; 
Oh! thou that feedeth the sickening soul 
AVith medicine of strength to make it whole, 
Warm to life of kindness, I implore thee, 
Some creature of my race to live with me. 
Blessed art thou in the myriad arms 
Of the countless worshipers of thy charms; 
By millions art thou, Holy Air! caressed. 
By ten thousand lovers hourly art blessed. 
Think of thy happy state, thy life of love 
Amid the royal cherubim above, 
Then look upon thy lone child, even I, 
Look from thy throiie of eagle's wings on high, 
And in this spot of beauty here behold 
A tribeless sachem, strong, not yet grown old. 
King of all this rich and radiant scene, 
But where, O Holy Air! where is the queen? 
My heart is filled with longings warm and strong 
To hear within my wigwam's folds the song 
And sweetly uttered counsel of a wife, 
To add a better half unto my life. 
A sachem should be a leader, but where 



158 poems: by homer p. branch. 

Will I find followers, O Holy Air! 
Fill thy son's ears with the sound of the tramp 
Of braves, a thousand, coming into camp. 
The passion of thy breast brings to my soul 
A throng of longings fond that inward roll 
Upon my heart with sweet affection's voice; 
Send to my arms the spirit of thy choice." 

Chimongha paused. The sunlight fell upon 
His bared brow and showed a face of power 
And of character. His eye was nervous, 
Bestless and searching, yet mild and kindly. 
His step was firm, his body vigorous; 
He wore the garments of authority — 
The soft-tanned deerskin blouse and moccasins, 
Leggins of the choicest mink, with a stripe 
Of ermine down the sides, and for a plume. 
Wing feathers of the white owl woven in 
A crest of black buffalo fur. Other 
Ornament had he none, for Chimongha 
Was not vain. His attire was elegant, 
Eich and neat, as became a mighty chief, 
Bat void of polished shells and jewelry, 
For the love of these he held as weakness. 

That he was truly great his hour of trial 
Proved. Such hearts are not subdued; they arise 
In the face of toil and difficulty 
More rapidly than do others favored 
By innumerable induences. 



ClII-MONG'-lIA, TJIE BANISHED 8AC1IEM. 159 

Chimongha! The blood of a hundred chiefs 
Coursed through his veins, To him the solitude 
Was not a mockery. His busy brain 
Peopled the luxuriant valley with 
A tribe of his own desh and blood, children 
Through him, of the race of chiefs, the Aztec 
Lines of leaders, from which he sprang, noble, 
Strong! 

He sought to stand alone, the head, 
King, priest, physician of a mighty tribe. 
In w^hich there should be no imbecile. 
No clown — every man should be a prince, 
With heart proud and unconquerable. 
Every squaw a princess in her lodge. 

With this thought living in his brain. 
And trusting to the Ghosts of Destiny, 
He wandered to and fro and up and down, 
Exploring every nook and glade and grove, 
Till the frosts of late Autumn bade him seek 
A sheltered place and build a wigwam, warm 
And snug, before the breath of the angry 
Ghost of the North brought ice and snow, reaped 
The leaves and put to sleep the grass and flowers. 

The hunting season was at hand. Stately 
Elk strode abroad in fearless pride; moose, bear, 



160 roEMs: by iiomek p. bkancii, 

Antelope, deer and buffalo, wandered 

At will, without a thought of other foe 

Than wolf or panther. The beaver, otter, mink, 

And muskrat, swam the streams without a fear. 

The strutting turkey and the modest quail, 

The drumming pheasant and the prairie hen. 

The timmid rabbit and the leajjing squirrel. 

Were a myriad harvest all the year; 

And the geese, cranes, ducks, and other downy 

Birds of passage, came in their seasons, 

Adding their fat flocks to the hunter's thrift. 

By the laughing river, 'neath a great bluff 
Of scraggy limestone, that towered high, 
Like an ancient battlement, with its rough 
Face to the sunshine, the solitary 
Sachem built a strong deerskin lodge, and when 
The bleak north winds swept across the prairies, 
And sobbed and howled down the vales and guUeys, 
Shrieking like mad wraiths thro' the bare forests, 
Chimongha halted from his wandering 
And abode within his pleasant shelter. 
By thrift well fed and comfortably housed. 
He speculated about the future, 
While dressing skins and furs he had secured 
While hunting on cloudy days, just after 
Snowstorms — calm days, when game roamed lazily 
At forage, after fasting within lair 
Or shelter while the angry death-ghosts chased 
The sharp winds through the frost-creaking forest. 



('III-31()N(j'-IlA, Till-: IJAXISIIEI) SACHEM. 161 

Aiid \u) manufactured weapons — longbows 
Of ash, made to throw a heavy arrow;* 
Hhort bows of hickory for the small game; 
Arrows of the tough, supple ironwood, 
Tipped with flintstones; hatchets, lances, headed 
With choice tiintstones from the western moun- 
tains; 
And to grind the keriials of the golden 
Maize-ear he made millstones of the granite. 
For cooking game he fashioned utensils 
Of blue clay, and baked them by the fire 
Until they were serviceable and strong. 

Thus by the warm fire of his wigwam, 
Chimongha was employed while sleet and snow 
Fell on the forest, and wicked blizzards 
►Swept in triumph down the leafless valley. 
So Chimongha did not languish — moped not 
In his solitary habitation — 
But braved, with huntsman's ardor, the perils 
And fatigues of the wildwood chase, alone. 

PAllT III. 

When the Fairies of the Spring time scattered 
Flowers o'er the prairies, clothed the woodland 
With a garb of princely richness, and decked 
With the sweet plumes of the wild apple 
All the hillsides in the sunshine, once more 
Chimongha wandered through the luxuries 



162 poems: by iio.^iEii r. branch. 

Of a coiistaijt-changing landscape, that without 
Limit grew the brighter as the Angels 
Of the Summer glanced upon the beauties 
Of this land by all good spirits favored. 

One evening as the south wind 
Whispered softly in the treetops, 
Fondly moving ev'ry leaflet, 
Chimongha styoUed down by the river. 
Watched the beauty of the sunset, 
Viewed the blazing splendor round it, 
And wondered if in such glory 
Lived the heavenly cherubim. 
As he gazed a dulcet murmur 
Softly stole into his senses, 
Sweetly charmed him as he listened. 
Breathless, pulseless, so intently 
That his heart near ceased its beating. 
Louder came the sound so charming, 
As with keen anticipation 
Farther strolled he up the river. 
Stronger, sweeter grew the music, 
Till a song in plain words uttered 
Filled the chief with consternation, 
Which again was turned to rapture. 
Angels could not sing more sweeily, 
Nor the ringing of the echoes 
Chime a sublimer harmony. 
One voice of the richest trebble, 
CarroUed when the chorus rested: 



CIII-310iN(; -HA, THE UANrsiIKD SACHEM. 163 

"The waves, soft-dimpling, laj) tlij^ shore, 
O Kiver of Flowers, and o'er 

Thy bosom brown 
Long shadows reach from rock and tree, 
And nature rests awhile to see 

The sun go down. 

"Ne'er did I breath in air more sweet, 
Ne'er have I known a scene to greet 

Me with such bright 
And beautiful displays of all 
The earthly raptures that enthrall — 
Bewitch— delight ! 

"Flowers and fruits and game grow here 
Bounteously — how they would cheer 

My father's band! 
Surely the ghost with heart of dove 
Must cast his fondest look of love 

Upon this land. 

"This Fairy vale, this happy place, 
Must know Chimongha's noble face — 

This is the stream! 
Yon blutf, kissed by the setting sun, 
High beetling, looks much like the one 

Seen in the dream." 

Chimongha heard and wondered; the beauty 
Of the voice filled his heart, but the mention 



164 roEMs: by iiomeii r. buancii. 

Of his name caused him to seek with troubled 
Look the source of the song. 

"O Holy Air! 
Has human sight e'er met on earth so fair, 
80 exquisite, so radiant a girl? — 
Eyes like the twinkling stars, teeth like the pearl I 
Is there among the sprites that round thee swarm 
One angel with such naive, sylphic form? 
Is it a vision that delights my eyes, 
Or a seraph from the roseate skies, 
Left by the glorious receding day 
To be swept up by the first morning ray?" 

This was the rapturous soliloquy, 

Half prayer, that bursted from the sachem's soul, 

As his approaching footsteps brought him near 

Unto the singer — a slendei- maiden 

Of scarse eighteen summers; yet with the air 

And bearing of one who has confidence, 

The fruit of well defined experience 

In successful exploits, she looked a queen, 

Although in the stirring spirit of her 

Nature, wild as the wilderness can make 

Its vivent and restless children, she sat 

With careless ease upon a sapling bent 

!So that in tossing saucily thereon 

Her bare and shapely feet, in dimpled mirth, 

Would plunge beyond her ankles in the stream 

O'er which the sapling leaned. Her raven locks 



C1II-310A(; -IIA, THE HANISIIEI) SACIIE.^I. 

II ling long and nc'gligently about her waist, 
And moved with pleasing co([uetry upon 
The buoyant breeze as she swayed to and fro. 

A dozen paces to the right a stpiad 
Of warriors were going into camp, 
AVhile the young women of the company 
Were cutting up a roebuck for the night's 
Repast, crooning at low sweet mek)dies 
The while. 

They w^ere not the dark savages 
That roamed in warbands over the prairies, 
Or made the woodland regions hideous 
AVith vicious yells and massacre. They were 
The paler, nobler race from the southwest, 
The race of great princes, Chimongha's race, 
For mental calibre and manly strength, 
AVith physical and moral courage, ment 
That people with such endowments could lead 
The inferior hordes, and shape affairs 
For those who lacked executive ideas 
Or were slack in profitable force. 
Even later in history, the chiefs 
Of greatest influence and mental strength 
Have been of fairer color than the tribes 
O'er wdiich they ruled, and it has been argued 
That they inherited superior 
Gifts through individual good fortune 
From a higher ancestry; that the blood 



166 poems: by iiomeu r. branch. 

Of prehistoric greatness still crops out 
At intervals, lending pronounced vigor, 
Spirit and surpassing intelligence, 
To the lucky scion. 

Chimongha knew 
That the group before him was of the race 
Which gave leaders of power to the hordes 
Of wandering, unorganized children 
Of the plains. With calm dignity he strode 
Quickly forward, welcomed the singing group, 
And in conversation soon realized 
The fact that they were also fugitives. 

A superstition of the great south-tribe 
Had banished Chimongha; and this small band. 
Which represented a band still larger, 
Had, with their relatives, been persecuted 
By the dark-browed savages of the north. 
Where their fathers had gone a thousand moons 
Before, called thither for their captainship. 
The rule of these intelligent sachems 
Barred' out the cruel, hideous tortures 
Practiced upon captives taken in war. 
Laws such as this put into force upon 
People scarse lifted from the animals 
Were a continuous, fretful burden 
To the pantherlike, bloodthirsty wildmen, 
And the second generation arose 
In determined, dogged rebellion against 



CIII-3IUNG'-IIA, THE IJAXISIIED SACTIK.M. Ki? 

This humane restraint, and the princes found 

Themselves amid incessant treachery 

And rabbid hatred, but still were not allowed 

To withdraw, but were compelled to perform 

The important offices of the tribe. 

The rude savages grew more insolent 

As time passed on, till subordination 

AVas unknown, and the great office of chief 

A position of insecurity 

And constant danger. Finally, to add 

To manifold insults, a vulgar dog 

Who coveted the chiefship, demanded 

The hand of the elder sachem's daughter, 

The beautiful Nemono, in marriage. 

And the refusal caused a bitterness 

That ended in a ferocious onslaught 

Upon the chiefs. Princes and squaws fought like 

Patriotic heroes, and defeated 

Promptly and decidedly the dusky 

8warm of savages, who fell back, sulking 

In the humiliation of defeat. 

The princes and their families then quickly 

AVithdrew with their effects to the southward, 

Followed and cowardly harrassed for two 

Moon changes by their lecent warriors. 

At last they cleared their old territory, 

And of a peaceable, wandering tribe. 

They learned of great Chimongha's banishment 

From the Konocwa nation. They had heard 

Of him frequently as a splendid chief. 



168 roEMs: by iiomeii r. branch. 

Of the pure Aztec blood, such as coursed 

In their owii veins. Surmising that his proud 

Spirit would lead him into the region 

Of his fancy, they changed their course toward 

The River of Flowers. But when they reached 

The fascinating stream, no evidence 

Of human resident could be descried. 

Their little company numbered fifty 

iSouls, and in the gracious security 

Of the valley, which they named Ay-ah-wah, 

(Beautiful Place), they made a temporary 

Camp, erected lodges oi basswood bark, 

A)id began providing for their future 

Maintenance and welfare. One night the girl, 

Nemono, had a dream. Chimongha's lodge 

And all the bright, exquisite surroundings 

Of his camp appeared to her in this dream. 

As the river was wider and deeper 

As seen in the dream than where they had lodged 

They inferred that he had settled farther 

Down the stream. Nemono's dreams w^ere never 

Questioned. She was the medicine princess, 

And the Great Spirit led her correctly 

In all visions of august importance. 

The princess with her female attendants 
And body guard of twelve young warriors 
Was dispatched down stream upon a light raft 
In quest of the famous sachem, and found 
Him as above recorded, on the eve 



Cnr-3lONG'-IIA, THE JSANISIIED .SAC1IE3I. 1G9 

Of the sixth day, and were at once tendered 
His praise and lavish hospitality. 
The next day a scout was sent up stream to ask 
The remainder of the band to joiu him, 
Which it did some days after. Then came 
A season of festivity and joy. 
During which Chimongha was elected 
Great chief and war-sachem. 

The Ayahwahs — 
For the princes assumed as their tribal 
Name the one at first given to the valley — 
Occupied this splendid territory 
From that time forward, sharing its bounty 
With an adopted band of friendly Soo. 

TAKT IV. 

Chimongha looked with loving eyes upon 
Nemono. Her intelligence and wild 
Beauty spoke to his heart continually; 
And the maiden admired the great sachem, 
80 grand and wonderful he seemed in his 
Great wisdom and superior ambitions. 
One morning as they met by accident 
Aside from the camping grounds, Chimongha 
Said: "Nemono, thou wouldst grace the sachem's 
Lodge, Chimongha loves thee, be thou his wife." 
Nemono answered: "The great Chimongha 
Hath spokeji, it is well." 



170 rOEMS: BY HOMER V. BRANCH, 

Scarse had they thus 
Plighted their faith, when the ultra warwhoop 
Of an old Soo warrior, one of their 
Newly adopted brethren, sent its wild 
Warning through the valley, and a young scout 
Came running to Chimongba with the news 
That beyond the river bluffs Apaches, 
Beyond number, were prepared to attack 
The Ayahwahs. Love must rest its issue 
When duty calls. In less than half an hour 
Chimongha had his forces marshalled out 
Upon a high mound, good vantage ground, 
Out in the center of a broad meadow, 
But furnishing a quick retreat into 
The forest, should disaster meet their arms. 
The mound was crowned with cobble-stones, 

weapons 
Formidable when used in close combat; 
And the wise Ayahwahs were skilled makers, 
As well as users, of war-clubs and spears. 
Bows and arrows, and were well provided 
With all these. Calmly, grandly they .waited, 
Still as the mysterious silence that 
Prevails before a storm. 

But see! Ah, ha! 
The Apaches, scourge of the western plains, 
8 warm o'er the bluff like demons of darkness, 
Throwing their bodies into hideous 
Contortions, lashino; each other with whips 
And inflictiniif themselves and each other 



ciii-31ong'-iia, the banished sachem. 171 

AVitli indignities innumerable, 

To increase their stimulated fury 

As they run; yelling like ten thousand wolves, 

Bellowing like bulls, shrieking as only 

Savage or demented human creatures 

Can shriek, on they come, closer they draw 

To the baud of patriot Ayahwahs. 

To submit is death ! To retreat is death ! 

To fight is surely death against such odds I 

O Chimougha, hero of former fields, 

What good thy valor now? A few strong strokes 

Of thy noble arm and thy brave heart may 

Beat no more, thy voice be stilled forever! 

But Chimongha is a warrior! Ten 

Thousand ghosts of death could bring no tremor 

To his nerves, no dread into his heart! 

And thus he speaks: 

"Oho, ye Ayahwahs! 
Fight, for the God of War looks on! Stand firm! 
Be strong, ye braves, and open wide your souls 
That the ghosts of battle may fill you with 
The rigors meet for this emergency! 
O ghosts of battle come! Chimongha prays! 
Come to the Ayahwahs ye wraiths of war! 
Witness ye heavens, now^ that where we stand 
A struggle will take place fit for the eyes 
Of gods and angels! To your clubs, ye braves, 
Ye women ply the bows; ye children, too, 
Hurl rocks and darts and arrows, that it may 



172 poems: by homer p. branch. 

Bo said that ev'u babes fouj^lit with Chiaiougha, 
Their faces glowing with the pride of war! 
Oho, ye desert fiends, come on! Ye swarms 
Of animals, ye raging beasts, ye men 
With fangs, ye eaters of your fellow men, 
Come on ! Oho, ye Ayahwahs, shoot when 
Your aim is sure, strike when you can and waste 
No strength, no arrows! Fight, for the spirits 
Of your sires look on!" 

It was a noble 
Sight, that band of braves, cahn and dignified. 
Crowning the green mound that soon might be their 
Beir. Without a visible passion they 
Began to shoot at intervals into 
The surging, frenzied host of Apaches 
Circled around them on the plains below. 
At every shot a wildman fell, amid 
Demoniac shrieks of vengeance from his 
Maddened comrades. On came the howling throng 
Up the steep, like the resistless billows 
Of a rising tide. A shower of arrows 
Guarded their advance, and a dozen wounds 
Flowed fresh among the Ayahwahs before 
The fight was hand to hand. The Ayahwahs 
Were less ferocious, but better fighters 
Than their foes. The Apaches shot thousands 
Of arrows at random, that spent their force 
Amid the prairie grass. Chimongha's braves 
Took aim whene'er they drew the bow, and laid 



CIII-MONO'-IIA, T]IE BANISHED SACHEM. 173 

A foe with every arrow parted with. 

But now the tight is hand to hand! The spear, 

The chib and hatchet cut and maim and kill! 

Like a thousand tigers of the jungle 

The wild men spring npon the Ayahwahs 

And fight an hour's space. Ho! they fall back! 

But O sad sight! A heap of slain, ghastly, 

Like the butchery of a pestilence, 

Where the Ghosts of AViath have heaped a human 

►Sacrifice to the God of Vengeance, 

Crowns the mound. AVhere are the brave children 

Of the Eiver of Flowers? Chimongha, 

AVhere is he? His ambitions, where are they? 

But why do the Apaches retreat with 

8uch great haste? Aha! the Ayahwahs 

Do not compose that w^all of slain, but safe 

Behind it are shooting deadly arrows 

At defeated and horror-stricken foes. 

Met with a resistance unaccountable. 

Striking many blows, but without effect, 

While those received were deadly in their force, 

The Apaches feared they had mot the gods 

In conflict, and unnerved with fear, 

Were fleeing in disorder from the spot; 

But not even fear could quell the insane. 

Diabolical desire of their hearts. 

To capture a prisoner for torture, 

x\nd no savages knew so well the arts 

Of torment, for they could keep their victims 

In constant, excruciating agony 



174 poems: by homer p. BPtANCII, 

For clays, e'en weeks, without inflicting death, 

And whene'er such prisoner was released. 

As distinguished and brave ones some times were, 

The anguish and the agony he had 

Undergone, left him a raving madman, 

Or a w^eak and jibbering imbecile 

It were a mercy to dispatch. O brave 

Ayahwahs, let not one of thy good band 

Be tortured with such wanton cruelties! 

Count thy dead warriors. Ten lie in death. 

Count thy wounded ones; all bear wounds enough. 

But a score ai-e so weak they cannot stand. 

And Chimongha, where is he? Dead? Wounded? 

Not heard his voice of firm authority. 

Not seen his tall, commanding form. His white 

Plume is not waving above the tallest 

Of his wai^riors now. Not seen among 

The slain or prostrate ones, he must have been 

Taken prisoner. Oho! What is that 

The Apaches are dragging through the grass? 

Nemono cries that 'tis the chief, and with 

A shriek of anguish and the uttered name, 

"Chimongha," she grasps a spear, and though 

bleeding 
From a serious wound, calls to the braves 
To follow. Out over the pile of slain, 
Down the sloping plain where the prairie grass 
And profusion of wild flowers are trodden 
To the sod by thousands of savage feet. 
The beautiful and brave girl leads a charge. 



ciii-:mokg'-iia, the banished sache.^l. 175 

Fierce and impetuous, to the rescue. 

With the strengtli of utter desperation 

On they dash, fifty brave souls, with shouts 

Of cheer that their captured chief may know 

That they are coming to his aid. Aha! 

They spring upon the horde of Apaches 

As though to fight a thousand were but play 

Or pastime worthy of a holiday. 

The thongs are severed that bind Chiniongha. 

Nemono kneels above him as the fight. 

Again renewed, roars with savage fury. 

And wipes his wounds with the soft folds of her 

Deerskin rob(\ He had been lassoed and dragged 

For many rods across the plain. Bleeding 

And bruised and so weak he scarse could stand. 

E'en when his wounds were dressed, so was carried 

Back to the mound, after the braves had gained 

Their second, final victory on the field. 

The Apaches disappeared o'er the bluff 
Down which they had climbed so ferociously, 
And ne'er again were seen eastward so far, 
As they were crowded to the far southwest 
By the Pawnees and the fierce Soo tribes. 

Chimongha's band removed their wounded 
To their camp, and with sad ceremonies 
Buried the dead who fell in brave defence 
Of their homes and hunting territory. 



176 roEMS: by homer p. branch. 

But left the dead Apaches to dissolve 

To dust, uncovered, where they had fallen. 

As the midsummer moon rounded into 
Fullness, Nemono sat within Chimongha's 
Wigwam, mistress thereof; and the great chief 
Formulated laws that governed his tribe 
In friendliness and morality — while 
Helived to enforce them. The Ayahwahs 
Increased and flourished as the years went by, 
Happy years, in the valley of the bright 
River of Flowers, until the tribe grew 
To be powerful and influential 
Among the great tribes of the Dahcotah 
Family, and if the wise Chimongha 
Had been followed by an enterprising. 
Wise succession of chiefs, a government, 
Civil and moral, would have grown into 
Civilization ere the present time. 
But even as it was, cannibalism 
And many of the worst barbarities 
Were by him abolished among the tribes 
West of the great Mississippi and north 
Of the part-civilized but man-eating- 
Peoples of the torrid southwestern plains, 
And the better traditions of his reign 
Lived, a continuous patrimony 
Of good influence to generations 
That followed, for good deeds never die. 



FAli^lEIl JOA'ES ON THE COUNTRY EDITOR. 177 

FAEMEll JONES ON THE COUNTRY 
EDlTOll.* 

Wife and me — her name is Sarah — 
AYe live jest out on North Parairie, 
On the purtiest quarter section 
That ever showed a green coniplexioa 
AVhen the skies of June was open 
And the winds of spring was lopin' 
Over fieUl and over medder 
AVithout bound and without tedder; 
On the purtiest lay of land 
That ever showed a golden stand 
Of grain jest ripe and fit fur cuttin' — 
That farm, sir, it jest takes the mutton. 

AA"e lived there fur twenty year, 
It was that or mighty near, 
Afore we paid any 'tention 
That is suitable fur mention 
'Bout patronizin' of the paper; 
I say, sir, 'twant the proper caper, 
But many folks do jest the same, 
Borrowin' papers is their game. 
Dead beats they are, by the eternal! 
Them that borrows the local journal— 
I see it now plain as a mountain, 
And it iroes without the countin'. 



* Recited by the author at the joint meeting^ of the Editorial Asso- 
ciations of the Third and Fourtli conjrressional districts, Odd Fel- 
lows Temple, Dubuque, Iowa, July iS, 1S95. 



178 poems: by homer r. branch, 

Wife and me we started small, 

We didn't have nothin't at all 

When we j'ined hands, so we fell to skimpin' 

And got along kindy lame and limpin' 

And kindy got into the habit 

When we could git a thing to grab it, 

Until by savin' and by schemin' 

We got together a beseem in' 

Comfortable little livin'. 

Always gettin', never givin', 

'Cept to send our boys to college 

Fur to brush 'em up in knowledge, 

And our gal, fur to keep and dress 'er 

It took cash or I'm no guesser; 

But that don't count, we must allow, 

Fur they was ours anyhow. 

We bought more land from time to time 
And I was feelin' peert, sublime, 
And one day in divine September 
I thought I'd like to be a member 
Of the board of county dads, sir. 
And thought the office could be had, sir, 
Fur I felt jest a little weighty 
As I'd jest bought another eighty. 

I didn't like the way things run, 
Thought they could be better done, 
Thought things looked somewhat alarmin' 
Fur poor fellers that was farmin', 



FARRIER JONES ON THE COUNTRY EDITOR. 179 

Fur the taxes they was high, 
And the board didn't seem to try- 
Fur to reduce 'em much of any; 
Well, I thought I'd be one too many 
Fur the trickin' county ring, 
80 I took a little swing 
Out among the politicians, 
Airin' of my new ambitions. 
Without a thought of circumvention 
1 'nounced my self fur the convention, 
And in the paper I expected 
To see my big hopes all reflected 
In an editorial lengthy 
Praisin' of me full and sti'engthy; 
But, by gum! it made me mad 
To see what that dumb paper had. 
It jest said that "Jones the miser 
He wants to run fur supervisor." 

I jumped into my one hoss wagon, 

And you bet there was ]io laggin' 

On the road. We went a pumpin', 

I kept the old grey mare a jumpin'. 

And drove right to the printer's office 

8wearin' that I would make him cough his 

Apologies up at once, immejit, 

The pig-headed, driveliu' eejit! 

There set the editor a writin' — 

Ugh I it jest made me feel like lightin'! 

And says I: "You rank old carcas, 



180 poems: by homer p. branch. 

You little skunk, you bleatin' Barkis, 

What do you mean by this here item? 

You don't know beans, nor when you sight 'em." 

He didn't act as I expected, 

He jest looked calm, cool and collected, 

And asked me perlitely to be seated, 

Jest as if that I had greeted 

Him with "good day" or "howdy do, sir," 

Instid of actin' like a bruiser. 

But jest then in bounced a happy 

Bright young woman, who asked the chappy 

In the sweetest elocution 

Fur a little contribution 

Fur a poor family in distress; 

I thought of five cents, that or less, 

But, by Goliah's big brass collar, 

That chap he handed out a dollar I 

More'n I had gi'n in all my life. 

Fact, sir, 'twas more'n me and wife 

Had both together gi'n the needy, 

"We had been so tarnal greedy; 

I felt as small as new pertaters. 

Or little runty green ter maters. 

Then came my neighbors, Smith and Johnson 
And my nephew, Billy Bronson, 
Fur to pay up their subscription. 
And they most had a conniption 
Teilin' how they liked the journal, 



FAiniEIi JONES ON THE COUNTRY EDlTOll. 181 

Sayiij' it was jest supernal, 
Fail of news, right to the i)'int, 
Complete and seldom out of j'int. 

An old man, kind faced and grey headed, 
Whose young daughter had jest been wedded, 
Called and thanked that little printer — 
Well, si]', fact, sir, 1 can't begin ter 
Tell how nice that old man talked 
As around the tloor he walked, 
Thankin' the scribbler good and tittin' 
Fur the fine piece that he had written. 

Well, then a man came in with copy 
Fur an advertisement big and whoppy. 
Said he wanted half a page. 
And wanted said space to engage 
Fur six months and meby more 
Fur his double-breasted store; 
And he said he laid his risin' 
In the world to advertisin' — 
Said he couldn't thrive without it. 
And that was all there was about it. 

Then in rushed a flock of childr'n, 

Noisy, jolly and bewild'r'ii', 

With a big bouquet of roses, 

Smellin' it with their little noses, 

And after the editor had 'risen 

To greet 'em, they told him it was his'n; 



182 poems: by iiomek p. branch. 

And the first one he could reach 

He hugged until he made her screach. 

Then he turned to talk to me, 

But in walked a comn^it-tee 

Of merchants, bankers, money loaners, 

Mechanics and property owners, 

To git the editor to agree 

To do a little puffin' free 

'Bout a new factory to be started, 

And he j'ined in with a good hearted 

Eeady will that was elatin', 

And they went on without abatin', 

Talkin' up the shapes and sizes 

Of all sorts of enterprises. 

And all j'ined in the same conclusion 

That advertisia' was no delusion; 

That the paper had helped the town, 

All around and up and down. 

They talked there fur half an hour 

'Bout the newspaper and the power 

Of good that it was always doin', 

Say in' that utter blank and ruin, 

Beyend all hopes fur to repair, 

Would befall if it wan't there. 

Next to come in was a good lookin' 
Bweet-faced woman, with a book in 
Her hand — it was a Bible — 
A little red-bound, thumb-worn Bible! 



FAllMER JONES ON THE COUNTKV EDITOR. 183 

She p'ii]t(_'(l to a fly-leaf on it, 

And asked liie editor to con it. 

He read, and tears came in his eyes, sir: 

"1 love this book, it makes me wiser, 

I also love our local paper 

May be better," signed "Lilly Draper." 

Since writiu' that the child had died, 

Had gone over on the other side; 

And the editor had spoken 

Of the earthly ties, now broken. 

In the warmest hearted words, sir, 

That anybody ever heard, sir. 

He looked noble as a brother 

As he passed the book back to the mother. 

"Keep it for the kind words you said. 

And may God's peace rest on your head," 

The mother said, in a way so tender — 

Well, sir, 1 felt fur my suspender, 

And tried to keep my eyes from bliukin', 

Fur it got me into thinkin' 

Of the one we laid away 

On a sad and crushin' day 

Back when me and wife was younger; 

Yes, sir, I had felt the hunger 

Of a heart torn by the partin' 

Wit-h a child, and I felt like startin' 

And a runnin' crazed and wild 

When thoughts came back of that dear child; 

And this editor I hated 

Fur the words that he had stated 



184 poems: by homer p. branch, 

'Bout mo bein' of a miser 

And a waiitin' to run fur superv^isor, 

This same man he wrote a notice 

'Bout our little dead flower, Lotus, 

(I called her that, she was so purty, 

But wife she always called her Merta) 

A kinder notice, one couldn't ask it, 

Of how she looked when in the casket, 

Like a sleepin' fay or a pearl settin'. 

And how the angels was a let tin' 

Of her soul into the glories 

Told to us in Bible stories. 

Such lovely words, how could he write 'em' 

We cut 'em out and saved the item, 

But never thanked the writer for it, 

And now I'd come in fur to war it 

With the editor for say in' 

In a way that looked like playin', 

Less ag'in me than he had for 'er, 

And it struck me like a horror 

On a dark and grewsome night 

How perhaps that he was right 

In callin' of me a miser. 

Fur I begun to look that size, sir, 

When in a view of retropsection 

I beheld my own complexion. 

Well, I begun to feel uneasy. 
And, too, I was jest a little wheezy 
With my asthma. The air was scant 



FAllMEK JONEH ON THE COUNTUY EDITOR. 18' 

And it fairly made me paut 

III that office. 80 I stepped outside, 

Failiii' right out lur to decide 

To givii the editor his thrashin', 

Tho' I'd struck in so fierce and dash in', 

Mehby 'twant the air but me, sir, 

But 'twas hotter than b'ilin' greace, sir, 

In that office. I was embarrassed, 

And my feelin's they was harrassed 

By the snick' r'n' of the typesetters, 

They was aiilers and abettors 

To my chokin' up in there; 

Seemed's though they was aware 

Jest how small and mean I felt 

At the way that I had dealt. 

Well, there was no use of naggin', 
80 I jumped into my wagon 
And drove home and said to Sarah: 
"Fur twenty year we haint took nary 
A one of our county papers — 
We're as stingy as two scrapers! 
Wife hadn't you better step in, 
AVhen you are down to town ag'iu, 
And subscribe and stop our borrowin', 
Fur its gittin' mighty harrowin', 
Bein' able fur to take it, 
But a havin' fur to rake it 
Up among the neighbors. Curious 
How we've been so dumb penurious. 



186 poems: by homer p. branch. 

Wife and mo we talked it over 
Clean from Limerick to Dover, 
Talked oat and in and talked it clear, 
'How that we'd been so mighty queer 
In bein' so close in all our dealin's, 
Kegardless of other people's feeliii's. 

We changed our course right there and then, 
And the childr'n said Amen, 
Fur they knew our reputation 
Fur bein' stingy's all creation. 

Since then we've done a pile of good, 

Givin' whenever that we could 

Donations to the worthy poor, 

And helpin' every righteous doer 

As needed help, when we was able, 

And invited to our table 

Neighbors that we long had slighted, 

And many's the wrong that we have righted. 

Folks quit callin' of me a miser, 

And now I'm County (Supervisor, 

And the editor he's our frien' sir. 

He is one of the best of men, sir. 

When you come to know him well. 

Though at his work, goin' pell mell, 

Hewin' right straight close to the line, 

He is apt to make you whine 

When a big chii) of truthful blame 

Flies and hits you where you're lame. 



ANNIE LxVUrtlE— LATEST VEIiSION. 187 

Like others lie may have liis failiii's, 
But don't you try to give him whailin's; 
If you want to win him over, 
Turn him loose into the clover 
Of your good and kindly graces 
And you W'ill touch him in the places 
AVhere he is jest as sweet and meller, 
Fact, sir, as any other feller. 



ANNIE LAUEIE— LATEST VEP.SION. 

Old Shell liock's banks are bonuie, 

Where early fails the dew, 
There me and Annie Laurie 

Made up the promise true. 
Made up the promise true. 

We our hearts to each did give, 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 

I would for ever live. 

Her form is like an angel's, 

Her smile is like the dawn, 
Her face it is the fairest 

That e'er man looked upon, 
That e'er man looked upon, 

And she has such a sweet blue eye 
That now I've looked into it 

I never want to die. 



